


The Acts of the Apostle

by keepcalmsmile



Series: The Disciple [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Biblical References, Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, Brotherly Angst, Brotherly Love, Emotionally Hurt Dean, Emotionally Hurt Sam, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Recovery, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sam Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Scared Dean, Self-Harm, Sequel, Torture, for everyone, lots of emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-01 03:51:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 23,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10913745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keepcalmsmile/pseuds/keepcalmsmile
Summary: A sequel to The Disciple: Dean is finally reunited with his brother, and they even saved the world to boot.But saving the world doesn't erase the past, and Dean is terrified of losing his brother again.Sequel toThe Disciple.





	1. The Road So Far

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sequel to my previous story, The Disciple.. While The Disciple follows a relatively traditional story ark, The Acts of the Apostle is much more episodic. It is a story of recovery, of the ugly/painful/messy/hopeful recovery that comes after the battle is won. 
> 
> As such, there are a lot of heavy themes discussed here including rape/non-con, torture, suicide, and self-harm. I'd love for you to read this, but take care of yourselves first. :)

# The Road So Far

For anyone who didn't read/needs a refresher on what happened in The Disciple, here is a summary as well as a transcript of the last scene. If you remember the basic summary of the story, then skip this and move on to chapter 2!

_Instead of just feeding him demon blood, Azazel kidnapped Sam as a baby, fed him exclusively blood, and tried to brainwash him so that he would raise Lucifer willingly. Because of this, Sam's started seeing visions as a small child. In these, he saw his brother and father working tirelessly to find and kill the thing that killed Mary and, they believed, Sam._

_Without revealing himself to Dean or John, Sam helped them kill Azazel. John died in the final confrontation. To save him, Sam sold his soul and and agreed to two years of slavery to the demon Lilith._

_After enduring two years of torture, Lilith released Sam, who finally reunited with his brother. While Dean quickly accepted him, John, believed the angels who said Sam was hell's Messiah. Following the angels' instruction, John tortured and tried to kill Sam._

_Dean rescued his brother, and after forming a tentative alliance with the crossroads demon Crowley and, later, the angel Castiel, they killed Lilith before the first Seal to free Lucifer was broken, and saved the world. Dean was injured in the showdown, and when he woke, he learned that Sam, whose soul still belonged to hell, wanted to die immediately rather than wait for his deal to come due . . ._

 

Sam, the bastard, refused to visit until the day the doctors released Dean from the hospital.  Even then, Dean knew Sam only agreed to come to Obiwon them through the discharge process.

When he wandered into Dean’s room, dressed in dark sweats and a black sweatshirt with the hoodie pulled over his head, hands shoved into the front pocket, and the words University of Oklahoma –that’s where the title fight had gone down, fucking _Oklahoma_ – blazed in crimson on his chest.

He looked so pathetic, so lost, that Dean took pity on him for exactly two seconds.

“No,” he said as Sam entered the room.

Sam stopped mid-stride, “What?”

“I said, _no_.”

Sam’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “I’m not going to get out of it, Dean,” he said in that gentle, patronizing voice that Dean _hated_ , “So why wait?”

“Who says you’re not getting out of it? You just saved the fucking world, Sam! Don’t you think you deserve _something_?”

Sam’s brow furrowed like an accordion, “When has deserving something ever had anything to do with if you get it?”

“Since now,” Dean said, “Since fucking now. You’re not doing this Sam. You’re not going to throw your life away before you have the chance to enjoy the world you saved!”

“It’s not my world, Dean,” Sam said coldly.

“Of course it is!”

“No. It’s. _Not!_ ” Sam roared. His eyes flashed black, and the window shattered, although the shards conveniently moved in a wide ark to avoid hitting either of them.

“Bit late for the seventh grade emo phase, isn’t it?” Dean raised an eyebrow, “So tell me. Why are you willing to rot in hell to save a world that isn’t even yours?”

“I didn’t give two fucks about saving the world!” Sam crossed the remaining distance between himself and the bed in half a stride and grasping the top bar until his knuckles shone white, “I only cared about you! I couldn’t bear to see you dead! And I couldn’t bear for you to watch the world you loved die in the crossfire of some bullshit sibling rivalry!”

Sam’s hood had fallen back, and Dean could see the faint, star-like scars dotting Sam’s brow from the barbed wire crown and the patchwork growth of his downy hair.

He wished Sam would put the hood back up.

“It’s not my world,” Sam sighed, “And that’s okay. Just let me go to mine.”

“Bullshit.”

“Excuse me—“ Sam’s pursed lips were well on their way to certified anger.

“You heard me!” Dean said, more resolutely, “Bullshit! You stand there and tell me hell’s your world, while I say you’d be just as out of place there. Only this time you would be suffering for all eternity too!”

Sam didn’t reply, “Well?” Dean finally demanded.

Sam stared at his shoes, “I don’t want to know what I’m missing.”

Out of everything Sam could have said, Dean hadn’t even considered this, and it sucked away all his anger, “You mean about being human?”

Sam nodded but still refused to look at him, “Cooking shows. High school. College parties. All of it. If it stays an impossible dream, then I can’t miss it, not really. But if I do understand your world, even a little . . .”

“I see,” Dean said slowly.

“So please,” Sam’s eyes were wide and desperate. His bottom lip even trembled a little, “Dean. Let me go.”

Dean rubbed his eyes. His stab wound ached and his stomach demanded something besides red jello. He wasn’t up for the existential debates that defined Sam’s existence.

“One year,” Dean said finally, “Give me one year to break the deal and convince you stay. I do it, you stay up here as long as you can. I don’t . . .” Dean swallowed and fixed his eyes on the wall opposite Sam, “I don’t, and I’ll kill you myself. Alright?”

It took nearly a minute for Sam to decide. Dean counted. Sam kept his head down the entire time, fingers crossed in front of him and tapping on each other again and again and again like a typewriter.

Finally, Sam looked up, “Fine.”

“Alright then.” Dean knew that the insanity of what he had just done, the weight of his promise would catch up with him later. He knew it would torment his walking hours and steal his nights. He knew the next year would suck ass. He knew it would be the best year of his life.

He also knew, unequivocally, that he was going to save his brother. Even if he had to shake the foundations of hell to do it.

Dean smiled. “It’s a deal.”

 


	2. June

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God  
> Or,  
> Sam's soul is slated for hell, and he isn't very interested in saving himself.

# The Acts of the Apostle

I didn’t take long for Dean to figure out that Jesus was a coward. Sure, He had come and saved the world an all, but he hadn’t stuck around in a world he wasn’t really a part of, not really. He just high-tailed it to the clouds.

Sam, hell’s Messiah, who had come to destroy the world but saved it instead, had no such luxury. His eternal reward was not adulation but agony infinitely greater than either Savior had experienced on any cross. Before then, he was trapped in a place that he only understood slightly less than it understood him.

And Dean was the one who’d trapped him here.

 

# June

23 For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God;

Romans 3

* * *

 

It turned out that Sam was a messy pile of trauma held together by a stubborn, if not obsessive, determination to save the world ( _save Dean_ ).

That first week it became painfully obvious that without his mission, Sam, to put it mildly, lost his shit.

The nightmares were the first, obvious sign. They were lucky to get a few hours of sleep before the screaming started, and Dean would drag himself out of bed and shake his brother awake. At this point, without fail, Sam would shut himself in the bathroom, and Dean would lie back down. Sometimes he even fell asleep.

During the day, Sam wrapped himself up in his sweatshirt, despite the summer heat, the hood pulled up and over his patchy hair. He followed Dean without argument, and Dean considered it a win if Sam said twenty words a day. In public, he was cautious and twitchy, clearly uncomfortable, even in empty dinners. Whether he feared the people themselves, or what he was able to do  _to_  them, Dean had no clue.

On the other hand, Sam still told the waiters at the restaurants and the clerks at the motels to forget to charge them, so that was a plus, at least.

Dean’s stab wound was still healing, so hunting was off the table for now, if not forever. Instead, Dean dragged Sam around America in his crusade to convince his little brother that the world was a place worth living in.

It didn’t go well. Road-side attractions (“It’s the world’s second largest ball of twine, Sam!”), car shows, “you can see a bunch of beer-belly lawyers drool over Baby”), even geeky things like botanical gardens got, at best, an un-impressed shrug as Sam burrowed himself further into his hoodie.

 

Operation “save Sam from the pit” was equally discouraging. It was obvious to everyone that Sam still couldn’t spend more than thirty seconds around John without shaking like a startled colt. John wasn’t much better, so he crashed at Bobby’s and the two worked full time on figuring out how to break a demon deal. So far, they had found exactly shit.

For his part, Sam showed no interest in his own eternal rescue mission and only gave minimal answers to Dean’s questions about hell. The only time he went into detail, in fact, was when Dean wondered aloud about Crowley’s fate.

“Lilith and Michael let him go,” he said, “Right after they trapped me.”

“What? Why? I just assumed they incinerated him on sight.”

“I think they wanted to let him sweat, then kill him slowly,” Sam shrugged, “That’s more Lilith’s style. But he’s intelligent, ruthless, and well-connected. He’s probably already consolidated enough power to crown himself king of hell.”

“If you’re right, that probably means he holds your contract.”

Sam didn’t respond, his twenty words apparently used up for the day. Instead, he returned his attention to the football game blaring on the grainy TV screen. Dean sighed and opened another beer.

 

Of course, Sam was right. A couple weeks after Dean left the hospital—once he’d convinced himself that Sam wasn’t going to run out on him, or worse, kill himself—he left Sam in the motel room with a paleontology textbook Dean had lifted from the local library and went to summon Crowley.

“Dean,” the arrogant bastard had greeted him with a cold smirk, “Figured we’d be having this conversation soon enough.”

“Sam reckons you’ve been doing pretty well for yourself,” Dean said without greeting, “Says you might even be the king of hell.”

“Sam always was the smartest of Azazel’s freaks,” Crowley said mildly.

“So you hold his contract.”

“Yeess,” Crowley said, “And before you ask, there’s no way in hell I’ll release him.”

“He saved you!” Dean said, “If he hadn’t done what he did, Lilith or Michael would be slow-cooking your ass!”

“And I’ll be sure to send him a Christmas card,” Crowley said, “But it is in my best interest, by far, to give Sam a one-way ticket to the pit.”

“To fill your sadistic wet-dreams, sure,” Dean growled.

“Hardly,” Crowley said, “Lilith was extremely protective of her property, and I have no interest in playing with someone else’s broken toy.”

“You shut your fucking mouth,” Dean hissed.

Crowley smirked, “Either way, it doesn’t change the fact that, despite Sam’s precarious mental state, he is still the one who killed Lilith, and a sizeable portion of hell believes . . .”

“Believes they should dump your sorry hide and crown him instead.”

“Exactly,” Crowley said pleasantly, “And the other half want to take out all their considerable anger on their former Messiah who decided to run off with Judas.” he looked pointedly at Dean, “So try everything you’d like, darling, but Sam is going to hell. He is going soon, and he will be there forever, so I suggest you enjoy him while you can.” With that, the king of hell disappeared.

The only upside, really, to the entire fucking month was that, for whatever reason, Michael left them the fuck alone.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story is finished, and I will update regularly.


	3. July

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Therefore I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distresses for Christ’s sake: for when I am weak, then am I strong.  
> Or,  
> Dean takes Sam to a strip club. Disaster ensues.

# July

10 Therefore I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distresses for Christ’s sake: for when I am weak, then am I strong.

2 Corinthians 2

* * *

 

The biggest (only) improvement in July, in Dean’s opinion, was that Sam’s hair finally grew to a reasonable length. It was still a jagged, uneven mess, and Sam still lived in that damned sweatshirt, but Dean didn’t have the luxury of being choosy.

Especially not after making one of the stupidest decisions of his life.

His “Humanity 101” course was still failing, even though Dean had no idea why. Sam had started opening up before he’d killed Lilith. Hell, that single day of aimless driving while swapping stories was easily the best memory of Dean’s life. He wasn’t stupid, either, he’d known Sam would be a mess, knew there would be rough spots.

He'd just expected Sam to try, at least a little.

Maybe that was why, about half-way through the month, he went and lost his damn mind.

“Strip club, Sammy!” he had announced, pulling in front of the dingy bar and switching off the Impala with relish. The words “Gentleman’s Club” buzzed above them in pink neon, complete with a neon outline of a busty woman waving her arm at them. The “T,” “A,” and “B” on the sign had gone out, and only one of the woman’s legs was visible.

Sam had surveyed the building with the same, distant curiosity he had everything else. Although, if he had paid any sort of attention, Dean would've noticed Sam’s tense shoulders and clenched jaw.

Instead of taking half a second to consider his idiotic idea, Dean had ushered them in, seated them at one of the tables nearest the stage, and ordered himself a beer.

To his credit, Sam lasted twenty whole minutes, keeping his head down, his eyes fixed on his hands as the music blared, and girls in G-strings twirled around poles. It was only when some douchebag at the next table asked for a lap-dance that things went completely to hell. 

Dean didn’t know exactly what happened. Maybe the stripper had winked at Sam, maybe the douchebag looked too happy, or maybe the woman’s proximity had simply been too much for him. Whatever it was, it sent Sam to his feet and running towards the door. By the time Dean caught up with him, Sam was leaning against the side of the Impala, and all Dean could see make out in the buzzing, pink light was Sam’s trembling shoulders.

“Sam,” Dean said, approaching him slowly, careful to stay in his field of vision. Not that Sam could actually see him behind the cover of his hood. “Sam,” he repeated when he didn’t respond. He brushed Sam’s shoulder with his fingertips. The contact jolted his brother like an electric shock, and his trembling only became more violent.

“Shit. Sam, I’m sorry. Fuck. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” It never occurred to Dean that Sam, hell’s Messiah, killer of Lilith, and thwarter of the apocalypse could completely break down at the sight of a couple of strippers. But of course it did. _Of course it did_. No one ever went into any detail about what Lilith had done to Sam, but no one really needed to either. Dean should've put two and two together and realized that _of course Sam would be fucking terrified of women._ Not to mention women in the fucking sex industry.

The realization sent a wave of white-hot fury crashing over him. It made Dean want to drag Lilith from wherever the hell demons went after they died, carve her up into tiny pieces and then do it again.

Dean couldn’t, though, and even if he could, that wouldn’t change the fact that Sam’s deep, labored breathing had evolved into dry sobs.

“Sam. I’m so sorry. I should’ve . . .”

“It’s stupid,” Sam gasped between sobs, “I could kill them all if I wanted, but when I see them-“ The words cut off, and Sam finally looked up, tears glimmering in the neon light, “I don’t want to feel like this anymore. I don’t want to be so _weak_.”

“Hey,” Dean said, “You might be a lot of things, Sam, but you are _not_ weak. You’ve been through shit no one on this stupid planet could even imagine, and you literally saved them. You saved the entire fucking world!”

Sam shook his head, “I’m dirty, Dean. I’m filthy. What she did to me, what I’ve _done_. I deserve-“ his jaw clamped shut.

“What? You deserve hell? You really think that? You think you deserve to go to hell?”

Sam shifted his eyes back to the ground. He was still trembling.

“No! Sam!” Dean said, “Fuck no! You were raised by demons, and you’re still a better fucking person than most people on this shitty rock!”

“That’s the point, Dean!” and thank God, Sam finally, finally sounded pissed, “I’m not human! You can live in whatever fairy tale you want, but I’m not like you! Like any of you!”

Silence fell between them. Sam glared at Dean, chest heaving and tears running down his face, daring Dean to argue.

“Maybe you’re not,” Dean said carefully, “Hell, maybe I’m not. I’ve done some things that most people would say earns me a spot in that pit you’re so eager to get to.”

Sam flinched, “Dean, don’t. . .”

“I mean it!” Dean insisted, “So I don’t fucking care _what_ you are. You’re my brother, and we’re going to fucking fix this, okay! Whatever it takes! However long it takes! You hear me?”

“Dean,” Sam began, but Dean wrapped his arms around Sam and pulled him into a hug. Sam buried his face into Dean’s shoulder, and neither of them moved for a long, long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story is finished, and I will update regularly.


	4. August

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.  
> Or,  
> Dean learns that Sam hates clowns.

# August

7 For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.

2 Timothy 1

* * *

 

In August, Dean watched.

The patterns were obvious enough, when he bothered to look. He had assumed that when Sam wasn’t on some holy (or unholy) agenda, he was just scared shitless by humanity because it was . . . human.

As always, Dean had underestimated his little brother. It turned out that Sam was only afraid of certain things. It just so happened that those things tended to be very common.

Women were the most obvious example, and Sam did not discriminate, He tensed and fidgeted in the presence of all of them, regardless of age, size, height or ethnicity, though young blondes were the most likely to send him into a full-out panic. Dean took to avoiding the Midwest and its largely anglo-saxen descendants. Sam undoubtedly noticed their not-so-subtle detours, but he didn’t say anything. Dean figured he made the right call.

There were other things, too. Things that took longer to notice either because Sam’s reactions were subtle (a quick glance away, or a brief clench of his jaw) or because they were so bizarre Dean didn’t understand (probably didn’t want to know) how they could freak Sam out so much.

Dean first noticed the clowns. He had dragged Sam into a McDonalds so he could pee and get his lunch at the same time. However, while he ordered a couple of Big Macs, Sam’s eyes flitted around the room, noting each Ronald McDonald poster then looking away, hands twisting in the front pocket of his omnipresent sweatshirt.

“Is that right?” Dean interrupted the cashier confirming his order. He glanced at his watch, “1:30 already? I could have sworn it was twelve.” He looked up at the pimply teenager, “Mind if we actually get that to-go?”

There were other things too: Flowers (but not wild ones), women’s perfume (also obvious), the color yellow (strike two for the golden arches), cake (though not, thankfully, pie), power tools, though Dean knew exactly where that one came from. He still got queasy whenever he caught a glimpse of the white prints in Sam’s palms. They’d finally healed, though. Thank—whatever there was left to thank.

By the end of the month, Dean figured he’d covered most of Sam’s triggers and usually managed to avoid the worst, with varying degrees of subtlety.

It was only near the end of the month, when it was nearing two-thirty and Dean glowered at the fifth exit sign boasting only a McDonalds, seriously contemplating the merits of eating his own hand off, that Sam finally said something.

“There’s no reason for the clowns, you know,” he said, “No grizzly backstory. They just . . . freak me out.”

Dean glanced at him, “You’re kidding.”

Sam just raised his eyebrows, “Is that really so hard to believe?”

“Yes!” Dean said, “You’re Sam fucking Winchester! Humanity’s double-agent since you were barely out of diapers. You’re ten different kinds of traumatized—no offense—and you’re afraid of clowns just . . . _because?_ ”

“I . . . guess so,” Sam said slowly.

Dean couldn’t fight back his laughter. Hell, he hadn’t found anything this damn funny in . . . forever. He pounded the steering wheel, cackling like a mad-man and earning the frightened glare of a soccer dad in the next lane, but once he started he couldn’t stop.

“Dude!” Sam finally said, “What’s so funny!”

Still cackling, Dean glanced at Sam’s bewildered face. Thankfully, Sam looked too weirded out to be offended, mostly anyway.

“You’re Sam Winchester,” he gasped between chortles, “Would-be ruler of hell, and you react to clowns like a three-year-old at a birthday party!”

The words sent him into another fit of giggles, and, shockingly, Sam smiled too, an honest-to-God, face-filling, dimple-boasting smile.

“You’re an idiot,” he said, but a few, quiet chuckles joined Dean’s mirth as they roared down the highway.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story is finished, and I will be updating regularly.


	5. September

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For ye have not received the spirit of bondage again to fear; but ye have received the Spirit of adoption, whereby we cry, Abba, Father.  
> Or,  
> Sam hears from his father.

# September

15 For ye have not received the spirit of bondage again to fear; but ye have received the Spirit of adoption, whereby we cry, Abba, Father.

Romans 8

* * *

 

September . . . didn’t suck. Sure, Sam still hid in his sweatshirt, but he was speaking up to 40 words a day and would occasionally crack a smile.

Meanwhile, Bobby and Dad had made a break-through, sort of.

“I don’t think there’s any way to mess with the deal itself,” John explained over the phone. Sam and Dean had settled in for the night in a motel in upstate New York. Dean had gone outside, saying he wanted to stretch his legs, while leaving Sam in the room with a cup of demon blood and the Discovery Channel. Sam still refused to drink more than a few ounces every couple of days, and Dean did not feel much of a need to fight him on that.

“You sure?” Dean asked, “No backdoor, no hoodoo, no ‘you saved the world’ escape clause.”

“I’m sure,” John said, “Bobby and I figure the best way to get this done is go after Crowley himself.”

“You mean set Sam on him?” Dean frowned, “I’m not sure Sam would go for that. He hasn’t seemed interested in . . . much of anything, really.”

“I don’t want to put him in the line of fire,” John said, “Not again.”

The regret hung heavy between them, so Dean said quickly, “Then, what were you thinking?”

“I’m still working on it, son. And I’ve got Bobby, Ellen, Jo, Rufus, and some dork named Ash workin’ with me.”

“That’s a lot of people for a guy who goes solo,” Dean said with a small smile.

“Well they sure as hell ain’t doin’ it for me,” John said, “There’s at least a few people who give a rat’s ass about what he did.”

“Well that’s something I guess,” Dean sighed, “Keep me updated.”

“Of course,” John said. He hesitated, “How’s he doing?”

Dean didn’t have an answer to that question. Sure, Sam was talking a little, and he was more likely to seem vaguely interested in the world around him. At the same time, the nightmares had yet to let up, Sam still flinched at everything, and they were as likely as not to drive eight hours without exchanging five words.

“A little better,” Dean said finally, “I hope.”

“Good,” John cleared his throat, “Good to hear that. Tell him Bobby sends his regards and that I . . .” he stopped, “Actually, never mind about me.”

“I understand, sir,” Dean said, “I’ll talk to you soon.”

 

“Good call?” Sam asked as Dean entered the room.

“Not bad,” Dean said carefully. He glanced at the TV, “What’s on?”

“Special on big cats of the world,” Sam said, “Apparently the snow leopard’s almost extinct.”

“That’s too bad,” Dean said. He grabbed a beer and settled on the other bed.

“Wanna switch to the game?”

“Nah. Can’t miss the nail-biting conclusion to cats,” Dean gestured at the TV, “We might miss something!”

Sam rolled his eyes but returned his attention to the screen when the TV switched from commercial. Dean pretended to watch as a couple of lion cubs rolled around in the dry grass while the narrator went on about mating habits.

“Bobby says hi,” Dean said a few minutes later as they watched an overly enthusiastic actress demonstrate a Swiffer mop.

Sam nodded, “Thanks.”

Dean looked down, fiddling with the tab on his beer, “So does Dad.”

He saw Sam freeze out of the corner of his eye, lips pressed into a tight, thin line.

“Right,” Sam said after a moment.

“Thought I’d let you know . . . in case you were wondering. . .” This was such a stupid idea.

The show saved them from continuing the painfully awkward conversation. Sam turned his attention from Dean to watch a tiger prowl through a dark jungle, and Dean followed suit. He suspected, despite Sam’s fixation on the screen, that neither of them heard much of the rest of the show.


	6. October

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For, brethren, ye have been called unto liberty; only use not liberty for an occasion to the flesh, but by love serve one another.  
> Or,  
> The brothers find their first case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story is finished and I will update regularly

# October

13 For, brethren, ye have been called unto liberty; only use not liberty for an occasion to the flesh, but by love serve one another.

Galatians 5

* * *

 

They literally stumbled on their first hunt.

Technically, it stumbled on _them_.

Dean finished eating breakfast at a diner in no-where Arkansas. It was one of those places that made you pay at the register, so he left Sam hunched over the local newspaper and started making his way over to the cashier when a waitress burst out from the back and crashed into him.

“Oh God! Oh God!” the waitress screamed, tears streaming down her face as she clutched his wrists.

“Sir! Sir!” the manager rushed over and tried to pry the waitress’ hands from Dean, “I’m so sorry, sir,” she said, “I don’t know what got into her. Your bill’s on me . . .”

“It’s fine. It’s fine.” Dean said. He glanced over at Sam who, as he expected, was watching the interaction intently, body coiled and ready to attack. 

“I’m fine,” he repeated, meeting Sam’s eyes. Sam nodded and relaxed . . . slightly.

“Jeanne,” the manager was saying. She had successfully pried Jeanne’s hands from Dean’s wrists, “Jeanne. Let’s get you back to the kitchen. Maybe get you some—“

“No!” Jeanne shrieked, “He’s there! He’ll kill me!”

“Who?” Dean asked, exchanging another look with Sam, “Who’s there?”

“Someone call 911!” one of the customers yelled.

“ _Mark_!” Jeanne sobbed, “It’s Mark!”

“Oh shit,” the manager said. “Everybody,” she called, “Jeanne’s just having a panic attack, alright! The man she’s talking about died six months ago! Do _not_ call 911!” Once sure the customers obeyed, the manager turned back to Dean, “I’m so sorry, sir,” she said, hugging Jeanne, who started sobbing uncontrollably into her shoulder, “Jeanne’s just had a bit of a fright. It’s been a tough year for her.”

“I get that,” Dean glanced quickly at Sam, “And Mark is . . .”

“Her ex,” the manager said, “Died in a car crash six months ago. Now, please sir, if you’d let me get her calmed down. I’m so sorry again. Your meal’s on me, and I’ll have Patrick write you a coupon for the next one.”

She ushered Jeanne to an empty booth and Dean crossed back to Sam.

“Sounds like a vengeful spirit,” Sam said quietly.

“It does,” Dean agreed, and damn, it had been ages since he’d felt that itch, ages since he’d dug up a grave or wasted a wendigo or beheaded a vamp. 

He swallowed, “I’ll call Bobby, have him send someone down.”

“If that ghost really does want to kill her, there may not be time for that.”

“Maybe,” Dean said, although he knew Sam was right.

“We could take it,” Sam said, “Pretty straight-forward, probably. Just salt and burn the bones and destroy any object he might have latched onto.”

“Piece of jewelry, probably,” Dean agreed, “Something she still wears.”

“Okay then,” Sam stood, “We should have this wrapped up by tonight.”

“Wait. Wait, Sam,” Dean reached out a hand and came just short of grabbing Sam’s arm.

“What?” Sam’s face tightened.

“I’m just saying,” Dean said, “You know I’m itching for this hunt, but I don’t want to do anything you’re not—“

“I swear Dean,” Sam said, “If we spend one more day wandering around doing nothing, I am going to explode.”

“That one of your special demon powers?” Dean quipped.

Sam rolled his eyes, “Yes,” he said sarcastically. He sighed, “But seriously, Dean. I know what you’re trying to do, and I’m grateful, I am . . . but I’ve never _not_ had a mission. I’ve never _not_ been in danger, and,” he gestured at his body buried beneath sweatpants and his usual sweatshirt, “I don’t think retirement suits me.”

“Alright,” Dean said slowly. He couldn't help his smile, “Alright then. Let’s go waste this bastard.”

 

 

It was all mostly routine. They dug up the grave, burned the bones, and, unsurprisingly, pulled up to Jeanne's just as Mark’s spirit was tightening his hands around her throat.

The fight was short and dirty. Dean blasted Mark full of rock salt as Sam pulled Jeanne to her feet.

“What did he give you?” he shouted, grasping Jeanne by her shoulders as she screamed, “Mark! What do you have that he gave you? A ring? A necklace? What!”

“M-m-my shoes! My shoes!” she blubbered.

“Oh you’ve got to be kidding me,” Dean muttered as he pulled himself to his feet, but Sam had already shoved Jeanne onto the couch and was pulling off her battered pair of converse  and flicking open his lighter.

“Oh God!” Jeanne shrieked, pointing behind Sam, “Mark!” Sure enough, Mark had fizzled back into view, hands millimeters from Sam’s throat.

“Oh hell no,” Dean growled, shooting Mark in the back with another round of rock salt as Sam set the shoes alight. Mark reappeared just long enough to explode into a screaming ball of fire.

Everything went still with only Jeanne’s sobs punctuating the gaping silence. Dean stamped his foot on the embers of the shoes.

“Those shoes mean anything to you?” Dean said as Sam leaned back on his heels with a sigh. “Birthday or anniversary present, anything like that.”

“N-no,” Jeanne stuttered, “He picked them up on the way to visit my sister in West Virginia because I had left my other ones at home.”

“He get blood or something on them?” Dean asked.

Jeanne’s blotchy face blushed a little more crimson, “Not blood, no.”

“Oh,” Dean glanced nervously at Sam who, sure enough, had shut down, shoulders hunched and muscles taut as he stared at the smoldering sneakers. “Well, we’d better go. Sam?”

Sam startled but stood, refusing Dean’s proffered hand.

“Thank you!” she said, following them to the door, “Really. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”

She brushed Sam’s arm, probably just trying to get his attention, but it didn’t matter. Sam jumped back, slamming into the wall.

“Oh! I’m so sorry. I-“ she reached out to touch Sam’s arm again.

Dean unceremoniously grabbed his brother by his jacket and threw him out the door. Sam didn’t object. Given the way his chest was heaving and his eyes were spinning wildly, Dean doubted he could.

“We need to go,” Dean said quickly, following Sam outside and shutting the door as Jeanne stared speechlessly after them.

 

 

They drove long into the night with the silence hangin between them. Sam burrowed back into his sweatshirt, arms pressed tightly around himself, and after a few pathetic attempts at conversation, Dean gave up.

It wasn't until after they’d crossed into Missouri that Sam finally spoke.

“I could snap her neck with one hand.”

“You could,” Dean said slowly.

“Wouldn’t even be hard.”

“Probably not,” Dean agreed.

Sam fell back into silence, eyes staring expressionlessly out the dark window, and Dean, for the life of him, could not think of a single thing to say.


	7. November

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For all the law is fulfilled in one word, even in this; Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself  
> Or,  
> Sometimes Dean needs a little help from his brother.

# November

14 For all the law is fulfilled in one word, even in this; Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.

Galatians 5

* * *

 

Despite the disastrous turn their first hunt had taken, Sam insisted on going on more, and Dean grudgingly agreed.

He was quickly glad he did. Hunting helped. It kept Sam sharp, kept him engaged, and, Dean suspected, gave him something to do besides think about the progression of traumas that made up his life.

It helped Dean too. He could barely handle wandering around aimlessly, especially while having to watch, helpless, as his brother slowly unraveled. So having a monster (a real monster) to hunt, something he could shoot or stab or burn . . . that was easy, cathartic even.

That being said, hunting was far from a cure-all. Sam still barely spoke, aside from when he interrogated witnesses. He still jumped at nothing, still consistently refused to meet Dean’s eyes, and still woke up half-way through the night screaming, often as not.

And sometimes, sometimes Dean had nightmares too.

He hated it. He felt guilty as hell about it. After all, what right did he have to complain when his brother’s body was covered in scars, especially since Dean was responsible for more than a few of them?

But, despite telling himself over and over that it shouldn’t bother him, sometimes Dean couldn't shake the image of his father sliding a knife into his stomach.

The scene changed, then, and suddenly Dean was driving the knife into Sam’s chest, blood spurting out over his hands. . . Sam’s blood.

Then Sam was hanging from that fucking cross, screaming as Dean drilled a hole in his palm. Flecks of blood and sinew climbing up the drill’s bit as Michael (Dad) whispered into his ear.

“That’s it, Dean,” he said, “That’s it. Keep going. Don’t go too fast now, Dean.”

“Dean!” Sam begged, jerking against the pain of the drill bit, tears streaming down his blood-smeared face, “Dean! Please!”

And God, Dean didn't mean it. He didn't want it. Everything in him fought it, but he opened his mouth and laughed. His laughter drowned out the shrill ring of the drill, Michael’s whispers, the sound of his own pounding heart. It did not drown out Sam’s screams.

“Dean!” he screamed, “Dean! Dean!”

_“Dean!”_

Dean surged out of bed, falling onto the floor with a humiliating _thunk_.

“Dude!” Sam said. The light flicked on, washing the room in pasty yellow light. After a few seconds of blindness, Dean saw Sam, dressed in sweats and the ever-present hoodie, frowning down at him. Sam stepped forward and silently extended a hand. Dean took it slowly, untangling himself from the sheets and heaving himself up. He looked around, not quite able to believe they were in another, crappy motel room and not that fucking basement.

“You okay?” Sam asked quietly, face pinched with concern.

It was too much. Sam shouldn’t be looking at him like that. Sam shouldn’t be worried about him. How could Sam stay with him? How could Sam _touch_ him? How could Dean live with himself when he could still feel Sam’s blood coating his hands?

Dean bolted, brushing past Sam and crashing to his knees in front of the grimy toilet just in time to hurl up last night’s burger and beers. Once his stomach was empty, Dean stayed curled around the porcelain bowl. He couldn’t bring himself to move . . . or to face Sam again.

Sam had other ideas. Dean didn’t hear him come in, didn’t notice him until a large, warm hand rested against the base of his neck.

“How do you do it?” Dean choked, “You don’t like flowers for whatever God-awful reason, how can you possibly stand to be with me? Why don’t you hate me?” He closed his eyes pressed his head against the cool porcelain, suddenly very aware of the tears streaming down his face.

For a long time, Sam didn’t answer, but he didn’t move his hand, for which Dean was pathetically grateful.

“I do hate you sometimes,” Sam said finally, “Sometimes I hate you enough I could kill you with my bare hands.” He trailed off. Dean opened his eyes and stared at the chipped tile floor, pretending he could see Sam’s thoughtful frown.

“Then I remember,” Sam said slowly, “How you would buy me one of those crappy hostess cakes from a gas station every year on my birthday. Then you’d whisper ‘Happy Birthday, Sammy’ when your dad wasn’t looking and leave it somewhere, a park bench, or under a tree or whatever.”

“You can’t eat them,” Dean said dully.

“S’not the point,” Sam shrugged, “Point is, you gave a shit about me, and even when you learned . . . what I was, you still gave a shit. Even if I don’t understand why.”

“’Course I do, Sammy,” Dean muttered, “You’re my brother.”

“And you’re mine,” Sam said quietly, “Now let’s get off this floor before your leg falls asleep.”

“Too late,” Dean grunted as he unwound himself from the toilet bowl.

Chuckling, Sam extended a hand, “You should think about that next time you decide to have a chick-flick moment on the bathroom floor at two in the morning.”

“Shut up,” Dean grunted as he grabbed Sam’s hand and pulled himself to his feet.

Sam laughed, honest-to-God laughed, “Clean yourself up, you idiot. I’m gonna find some Rachel Ray reruns. Don’t think there’s any point trying to sleep tonight.”

“Right,” Dean nodded. He flushed the toilet then turned to the sink and caught a glimpse of his wet, blotchy face. He shook his head and picked up his toothbrush before setting it back down and hanging his head.

“Hey Sammy,” he said quietly.

Sam ducked his head back into the bathroom, a small, worried frown creasing his face, “Yea?”

“Thanks.”

Sam gave him a small smile, “Brush your teeth. You reek.”

Dean snorted but obeyed, brushing his teeth twice before washing the tears from his face. The sound of an overly excited woman babbling about chickpeas and some other crap floated from the other room.

Things still sucked. Sam still jumped at everything, still hid himself behind his hair and his hoodie. Despite their sharing and caring moment tonight, come morning, Sam would be as silent as ever. The nightmares would continue (for both of them). Dean was going to call Bobby tomorrow and say that they wouldn't make it for Thanksgiving.

Dean knew all of this, but as he thought about staying up until dawn watching cooking shows with his baby brother, about how Sam was _real_ and _alive_ and by some miracle still wanted to be with _him . . ._  

Well, Dean couldn’t help but smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note on comments  
> 1: I LOVE when I see comments! Seriously, they make my day, and I try to respond back to y'all. <3
> 
> 2: I totally welcome critiques on MY work. I'd prefer if they're constructive critiques, but even if someone blatantly insults me and my writing, I will probably leave it up. 
> 
> 3: However, I have a zero-tolerance policy for readers disrespecting other readers, and if someone responds to another person's comment rudely, I will delete it. Disagreement is fine, but I want everyone to be comfortable expressing their opinions. 
> 
> I'm sorry about this long and mildly unpleasant note, but I wanted clarify this. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading AND for your kudos and comments!!! <3


	8. December

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus"  
> Or,  
> Sam celebrates his first Christmas

# December

(7)And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus

Philippians 4

* * *

 

They spent Christmas at Bobby’s.

Dean considered chickening out every ten minutes until they were actually in Bobby’s living room. Sam was as silent and inscrutable as ever.

Still, Dean thought Sam liked the idea of Christmas with Bobby. It was, after all, his first Christmas.

At first, Dean worried how Sam would react to the vomit of Christmas cheer that splattered the country the day after Thanksgiving. He and Dad had never been ones for Christmas, but still, Dean hated the thought of yellow-eyes and Lilith ruining it for Sam.

Miraculously, they hadn’t. Sam watched the lights and Santas flood across America with the rapt awe of a child. Except this was so much better. Dean never imagined that the former Boy King of hell would light up at the sight of a Christmas tree.

Sam’s excitement also meant that they couldn’t ignore Christmas as they had Thanksgiving (seriously, they worked a case). Dean wanted Sam to have the lights, the carols, the whole nine, and that meant going to Bobby’s.

Sam had frowned at the idea, “You think we should?”

“I don’t know,” Dean shrugged, “We could if you want.”

Sam curled a little deeper into his hoodie. Now that it was cold, Dean couldn’t even come up with a lame-ass excuse to get the thing off.

“Will John . . .” Sam began.

“No,” Dean said firmly, pushing down a small stab of regret, “He’ll hang with Caleb.”

Still frowning, Sam nodded slowly, but Dean caught a glimmer of excitement in his eyes all the same.

 

 

That would have been fine except that, two days later, somewhere between Orlando and Tallahassee, Sam said, “You should invite him.”

It took Dean awhile to catch up. “What?”

“You should invite him . . . John,” Sam stumbled a little over the name, “You should invite John,” he repeated.

“Woah dude!” Dean said, “Just because Rudolph decided to chill with all the other reindeer brats again doesn’t mean . . .”

“Who the fuck is Rudolph?” Sam interrupted.

“Right,” Dean said, “We’ll fix _that_ tonight, and we’ll let Dad and Caleb split some Boston Market for Christmas. Good talk.”

“Don’t patronize me!” Sam snapped.

“Yea, well, don’t come up with dumbass ideas,” Dean shot back, “Why are you even suggesting this? You hate the man!”

Sam looked down at his palms, “I don’t hate him,” he said quietly.

“Well you should,” Dean said, but it didn’t come out nearly as belligerently as he intended. The scars in Sam’ palms distracted him.

“You miss him,” Sam said, still looking at his hands.

Dean sighed. He wished like hell it wasn’t true, but the fact was, he’d spent far too many years alone with the old man not to miss him, even when he sometimes hated him at the same time.

“That’s not the point, Sammy,” Dean said quietly.

“The point is . . . he’s your Dad, and,” Sam took a deep breath, “He’s mine too. Technically.”

“And you have every right in the damn world to dump his ass and never think about him again.”

“I watched him too as a kid, Dean,” Sam said quietly, “And I . . .” He swallowed and began again, “Look, I’m not talking about a grand reunion, I’m not even talking about the whole day. I’m talking about a couple hours after dinner. That’s it.” He snorted ruefully, “Knowing me, I’ll probably just curl up in the corner and not say a word the whole evening, but . . . I want to do this.”

Dean let out a breath, “Okay Sammy.”

 

 

That was how the heart-warming Hallmark Christmas in Dean’s mind transformed into a catastrophe on the horizon, and he was the stupid idiot who agreed to it.

They arrived around noon Christmas Eve, and Bobby greeted them both with gruff hugs. To Dean’s surprise, Sam returned Bobby’s embrace and gave him a small smile.

“Hey Bobby,” he said.

“Hey kid,” Bobby replied with a smile, “Dean driven you crazy yet?”

“Well I was already half way there,” Sam said with a smirk, “But he finished it off.”

“Shut up, I’m a joy to be around,” Dean said, “It’s _you_ who leaves your geeky shit all over the place now.” Of course, Dean provided most of the books, magazines, and pamphlets that made up said geeky shit, but _still_.  Sam gave him a shy smile, as if he’d read Dean’s mind, but didn’t reply. That was okay. The light-hearted banter was a new development, something Sam only experimented with on _very_ good days. If Sam was willing to do that with Bobby, well, Dean figured they already had their Christmas miracle.

Dean soon realized that Sam was actually very comfortable with Bobby. Ten seconds after walking through the door, the old man was chatting with Sam about some book he “happened” to have found on Biblical Hebrew that he though Sam might like. The conversation stretched from the hour Dean and Bobby spent chowing down on Stoffer’s lasagna, to the drive to the local home depot, paused for ten minutes while they argued over the perfect Christmas tree (Bobby insisted on the biggest), resumed while Dean lugged the big-ass box onto the trolley, paused again to argue over the best color of tree lights (white-Sam called it classy, Dean called it boring), resumed, and paused again as they picked out boxes of ornaments (no glitter, Bobby growled) and then resumed on the drive back. It only ended for good once all three of them were lost in a pile of plastic branches that supposedly formed a tree.

“Next time we’re just hacking down a pine tree in someone’s front yard,” Dean growled as he jammed another branch into the plastic pole.

“Maybe we should get you crappy Santa suit so you can steal all the little Who-whatevers toys too,” Bobby said.

“It’s another movie,” Dean said in response to Sam’s frown, “ _How the Grinch Stole Christmas_.”

“Is there more cheezy singing?”

“Dude, it’s _Christmas_ , there is nothing _but_ cheese,” And _Bad Santa_ , but Sam was never going to hear about _that_.

Sam snorted and started telling them about the history of Christmas trees, which Dean took to mean they’d be watching the Grinch that night. Bobby said his wife, Karen, bought a bunch of Christmas movies he never bothered to get rid of. Dean didn’t mention how they were all DVDs . . . most with the price tags still on.  

They spent an hour or so decorating the tree, and Dean knew Sam was trying to act casual, but he still caught his brother grinning helplessly when he thought Dean and Bobby weren’t looking.

It was the best thing Dean had seen in his damn life.

Sam fell asleep on the couch, still facing the Christmas tree. Scrunched up almost impossibly on the couch. With the glow of the Christmas lights reflecting on his face, Sam looked younger, almost childlike. Bobby had gone to bed a couple movies before, which left Dean watching his younger brother sleep. He felt the time slipping away like a cosmic hourglass, had been feeling it more and more all month _—only half a year left now—_ and as far as he knew, they had shit to go on. But for now . . .

Now Dean had Bobby. He had a fucking Christmas tree. He had his brother. He could work with that.

Dean knew the peace wouldn’t last, that he should head up to Bobby’s spare room to grab a few hours of sleep. He needed to be alert tomorrow, and his eyes were already sliding shut every couple of minutes.

Except the last time he fell asleep instead of watching Sam, his brother was crucified, and his torturer was coming for Christmas.

The thought brought Dean to his feet, sleep forgotten. He started pacing around the room but froze when he stepped on a creaky floorboard. Sam’s eyes shot open and flew around the room until they rested on Dean.

“It’s okay, dude,” Dean whispered, “I’m just going to grab some air. Sorry I woke you.”

Sam frowned, eyes wrinkled in concern.

“I’m okay, Sammy,” Dean promised, “Go to sleep.”

Sam frowned again, but his eyes drifted shut, and his breath evened out. At a loss of what else to do, Dean grabbed his coat and slipped outside.

It was bitterly cold. Dean shoved his hands into his pockets, wishing he’d grabbed a hat. Shivering and stamping his feet, Dean walked (but did not _pace_ ) in front of the window. Because it was cold, and he needed some air, and he would go back inside in just a few minutes. He was _not_ standing outside like a guard dog in case . . .

“Hello Dean.”

Dean whirled around, grabbed the intruder by the collar, and shoved him into the wall, “Who the hell-“ he began, but stopped, “Castiel?”

“Yes,” the blue-eyed angel nodded gravely, “I apologize for startling you.”

“Yea well nice try,” Dean snarled. He drew his knife, even though, if this was _any_ angel, it would do jack. “Castiel is dead,” he continued, “Michael splattered his guts on a warehouse wall.”

“He did,” the angel agreed, “But someone—God, I suspect—brought me back.”

“Oh yea? And why would he do that? Last I heard God didn’t give a shit about the end of the world.”

“I think he cared,” Castiel said, “But, I think he trusted you and Sam to set it right.”

“Huh,” Dean’s rage repulsed any feeling of cold, “And he gave you a new set of wings for switching sides at the last minute but left Sam with . . . what? Hell?”

“No,” Castiel said sharply. He took a deep breath, “I believe God brought me back to atone for my sins, and so that I may be of some use to you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I am here for the same reason you are, Dean,” the angel said, “I am keeping watch.”

_“Excuse me?”_

“I am . . . making sure you’re safe, that you’re _both_ safe,” Castiel explained, a little impatiently.

“You mean you’ve been following us?”

“Of course not,” the angel snapped, “And I couldn’t even if I wanted to. But . . . you are more vulnerable here.”

“I see.” Dean slowly pocketed his knife and stepped back, “And I suppose Michael’s cool with your guardian angel gig?”

“Michael has been . . . absent, since Lilith’s death,” Castiel said slowly.

Dean frowned, “What does that mean?”

“It means that, after my . . . resurrection, Michael withdrew himself. He has shut himself in a corner of heaven and not spoken to anyone since. Raphael, the archangel, has taken charge, but even he has changed.”

“Changed . . .” Dean said suspiciously, “How?”

“He used to be just as determined to stop the apocalypse as Michael,” Castiel said, “Now he says that the apocalypse was simply God’s test for mankind, and that you passed. He is running heaven as it was before.”

“So you think God gave them a talking-to,” Dean finished.

“That seems the only logical explanation.”

“Yea, well. It would have saved us all a lot of hassle if He’d had done that from the get-go.”

Castiel shook his head, “But you had not passed the test then.”

Dean’s rage flowed back, “You mean you buy that shit!”

The angel sighed, “The Lord works. . .”

“If you say in mysterious ways, so help me,” Dean warned, “I don’t care what bullshit test _God_ was trying to give humanity, you don’t play with people’s lives like this!” He gestured to the window, “You don’t let things like . . .” he stopped and rubbed his hand down his face to brush away a few, traitorous tears.

“That is also why I am here,” Castiel said quietly, “I have something for you.” He reached into the pocket of his trench coat and pulled out a small card, “Here.”

Dean took it. It was just a business card.

Lazarus Ink

Fine tattoos by artists with over 15 years of experience

Walk-ins welcome

2120 East St, Littleton, CO, 80163

“What the hell is this supposed to be?” Dean demanded.

“Trust me,” Castiel said, “When you need it, you will know.”

“You wanna help?” Dean snarled, “Why don’t you find a way to save Sam!”

Castiel smiled. It made his features strangely soft. Dean didn’t want to kill him quite as badly.

“Your father is working on that,” he said, “Trust him.” He nodded to the house, “Now, get some sleep, Dean. Sam will be safe, I promise.”

Dean grunted. He was five different kinds of confused and still pissed to hell. But he was freezing his nuts off, and he believed Castiel . . . at least a little.

So, with a last glance at the (resurrected?) angel, Dean headed back into the house.

               

 

Unlike the day before, Christmas was tense. They were all up early, and after a quick, silent breakfast, they spent most of the morning wandering the house. Sam and Dean tried watching _The Santa Clause_ , but stopped before Tim Allen got remotely fat. They both said they were both bored with movies after their Christmas-Eve marathon, but Dean knew they were both too anxious to sit still for two hours.

They spent another couple hours reading—Sam a biography of Abraham Lincoln and Dean _Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance,_ don’t judge—but after Dean spent ten minutes reading the same sentence without absorbing more than the fact the guy liked motorcycles, he gave up and wandered into the kitchen where Bobby was nursing a beer.

“Go get me some whiskey, the good stuff,” Bobby said without greeting.

“Anything gonna be open?” Dean asked dubiously.

“Go see,” Bobby said, “Least that way you’ll wear a hole in the asphalt instead of my floors.”

Sam eagerly accepted Dean’s offer to “find Bobby his damned whiskey,” and the moment they both settled in the Impala, Dean’s shoulders relaxed. He closed his eyes and took a deep breathe before opening them again and starting the ignition. He snuck a glance at Sam. His eyes still had a glassy, far-away look, but Dean took the fact that his body was not vibrating with tension as a win.

They didn’t find Bobby’s whiskey, of course, and drove in silence, but that didn’t stop the air from becoming tangibly heavier when they pulled back into Bobby’s driveway and saw John Winchester’s truck parked beside them.

At first, neither moved. Dean balanced his attention between the house, the truck, and Sam. Sam’s attention remained riveted on John’s truck and particularly, Dean suddenly realized, on the truck bed. Dean hadn’t thought about how John had gotten Sam from Bobby’s to Illinois, and, given the ashen tinge to Sam’s face, he suddenly, desperately, didn’t want to know.

“We don’t have to do this, you know,” he said finally.

Sam snorted, “And what’s the other option? We just peace out?”

“For starters,” Dean said, “Or I tell Dad to clear off, and we spend the rest of the night watching craptastic Christmas movies.”

“No Dean,” Sam shook his head, “We—I—need to do this.” With that, Sam got out of the car and strode into the house, Dean trailing after.

Bobby and John were sitting at the kitchen table when Sam and Dean opened the door. John leapt to his feet, even though it must’ve been hell on his leg, and sent the chair hurtling towards the cabinets.

“Hello boys,” he choked with red-rimmed eyes.

For a long moment, neither responded. Finally, Dean took a step forward, “Hi Dad,” he croaked. He hesitated another second before taking another couple steps towards his father. John took this as permission to rush forward—limp be damned-- and Dean suddenly found himself enveloped in a bear hug. He hesitated, but returned the gesture, burying his face in his Dad’s neck and clutching even harder when John let out a sob.

When Dean finally pulled away, both he and John were wiping wetness out of their eyes. Sam’s eyes, on the other hand, danced around the room, flicking back to John every couple of seconds before flitting away the next moment. For another long, awkward minute, no one spoke, and Dean was about to break the silence when John finally said, “Merry Christmas, Sam.”

Sam nodded jerkily, “Merry Christmas . . .” he began before closing his mouth and resuming his skittish observation of the room.

“Well,” Bobby said finally, “It looks like Dean has failed spectacularly in his assignment to find us some whiskey, so why don’t we grab a twelve pack and catch up around this tree.”

Sam nodded gratefully and led the way into the living room. He curled himself into the corner of the couch closest to the wall, and Dean sat beside him. Bobby dragged a chair across from the couch and set a twelve-pack on the table an. After a moment’s hesitation, John settled himself in the other couch corner.

Bobby popped open a can, “So,” he said casually, “Dean was telling me how he and Sam took down a vamp nest in El Paso a couple months back. It was quite a story.”

“You boys found vamps in _El Paso_ ,” John said, and his voice almost sounded like it used to when Dean would return from a hunt, high on adrenaline and victory.

“Yea,” Dean cleared his throat, “Sam found an article about some missing hikers, and at first we thought it was maybe a black dog or a chupacabra, because what type of dumb-ass vamps hang out in El Paso? But we got there, and . . .” it felt jerky and awkward at first, but as Dean delved deeper into the story (Bobby was right, it was a good one) Dean’s chest loosened a little. While it wasn’t like the countless hours he and John used to spend discussing cases, it still felt familiar. Dean realized that he and John hadn’t talked about anything other than Sam since Gordon first called all those months ago.

Sam, true to his word, kept silent. Dean snuck glances at him as often as he could, but Sam had buried himself in his hoodie until only his nose and the outline of his jaw was visible. John was sneaking glances at Sam too, and only Bobby seemed unconcerned with what Sam was doing, which, Dean grudgingly admitted, was probably how Sam preferred it.

John didn’t stay long. They were each only on their second beer (except for Sam of course) when John stood and said, “Well, I should get going before the roads get too icy.”

Dean stood too. “It was good seeing you. Hopefully sometime soon-“ he stopped and glanced at Sam.

“Hopefully,” John agreed. He cleared his throat and took a step towards Sam, who flinched. John stopped, nodded to himself, and turned back to Dean, “I got something for you boys,” he said, pulling a thick envelope out of his pocket, “It doesn’t begin to make up for what I’ve done, but hopefully you both will like it.”

Dean took the envelope, “Thanks, Dad.” He extended his arms, and John practically fell into them.

“Take care of your brother,” he murmured. Dean felt wetness soaking through his shirt.

“I will, Dad,” he replied.

“Good,” John pulled away, “Merry Christmas everyone.”

“Merry Christmas,” Dean and Bobby murmured. Sam stared at his hands.

With a last smile, John turned and limped towards the door, dug around for his keys, and pulled the door open.

He was already halfway into the cold when Sam cleared his throat and muttered, “Merry Christmas.”

John stopped. Then he turned and looked at Sam, who was wringing his hands, head bent almost past his knees.

“Merry Christmas Sam,” John said, and Dean briefly considered forcing Sam’s head up to he could see the warm, wet, softness in John’s eyes.

But then the door closed and John was gone.

For a long moment, no one moved. Sam kept his head bowed, Dean kept his eyes on Sam, and Bobby watched them both.

“You okay, son?” Bobby said finally.

Sam let out a slow breath, “I’m fine.”

“Good…that’s uh…good,” Dean said lamely.

Sam smirked, “You might as well open the envelope.”

“What? Oh right?” Dean hurriedly ripped the envelope open and pulled out a stack of yellowed photographs. The top one was of a dark-haired man and a blonde woman standing outside of a house. The man was holding a young boy and the woman a white bundle.

Dean’s version blurred. He flipped to the next photograph: the young boy holding a chubby baby, then the next: a young John and Mary, Mary holding a young Dean, Mary holding Sam . . .

“Here,” Dean said, handing Sam the stack of photographs.

Sam took the stack gingerly and sank onto the couch. He gasped as his finger ghosted over the first, grainy photo, as if he thought it would combust at his touch. Then Sam’s eyes were brimming with tears, and then he was sobbing, setting the stack tenderly onto the cushion next to him as he cried.

“Shit. Shit. Shit,” Dean said, handing the photos to Bobby and pulling Sam into his arms without thinking if it would make things better or worse. For once, he got it right. Sam leaned into his embrace and sobbed into his shoulder, soaking Dean’s shirt instantly.

For a long time, Dean was only aware of the 6’4” puddle of little brother in his arms: not of the fire as it crackled and died, not of Rumsfield’s barking—probably in response to the angel standing outside, not even of Bobby’s footsteps as he retreated upstairs.

Instead, all he heard were Sam’s chocked sobs, all he saw was Sam’s hoodie and his chin-length hair, and all he felt was Sam’s heartbeat pounding into his ribcage.

That was all Dean knew until Sam croaked through the tears, “I missed you both so much . . . so fucking much.”

Dean crushed Sam a little closer into his embrace, “Us too, Sammy,” he said, “Every fucking day. But you’re okay. You’re safe. You’re home now.”

He kept on saying it, “You’re home now. You’re home now. You’re home now,” until Sam finally drifted to sleep. Dean followed suit a few minutes later, still pinned awkwardly beneath his brother. Upstairs, an old drunk sat armed with a shotgun, a bottle of whiskey (of course he still had some), and an old photo album filled with pictures of his young wife and the little boy he adopted almost twenty-four years ago. Outside, an angel made peace with an irascible dog, and they stood guard together.

A few miles away, a crippled hunter, a pastor, and two Harvelles that wouldn’t take no for an answer, boarded a flight from Sioux Falls Regional Airport to Chicago, then from Chicago to Glasgow, Scotland to face down the King of Hell.

Far above, Mary Winchester’s soul reached down from heaven and shooed her boys’ nightmares away.

That night, the brothers slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course I'm gonna give Sam and Dean a happy Christmas :)


	9. January

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But those things, which God before had shewed by the mouth of all his prophets, that Christ should suffer, he hath so fulfilled.  
> Repent ye therefore, and be converted, that your sins may be blotted out  
> Or,  
> John Winchester tries to make up for betraying his son.

# January

18 But those things, which God before had shewed by the mouth of all his prophets, that Christ should suffer, he hath so fulfilled.

19 Repent ye therefore, and be converted, that your sins may be blotted out

Acts 3

* * *

 

In January, John Winchester saved his son.

“He’s _what!_ ” Dean choked.

He was standing outside a dusty, cowboy-themed motel in the empty remains of a tourist town along Route 66. The town had died with the birth of the interstate. Even they were just stopping for the night on their way to New Mexico to figure out why three people in the same town were killed by vending machines over the past three years. Sam was the one pushing to go, scowling when Dean said it was just a coincidence.

“Since when have we ever come across something that’s ‘just a coincidence.’”

“Fine!” Dean snapped, because there was nothing else to say. Because he couldn’t tell Sam he didn’t give a rat’s ass if people were dying while getting a bag of Cheetos . . . not when he was just five months away from losing Sam for good.

And the son of a—the bastard knew it too, but he kept dodging Dean’s questions about demon deals, ignoring Dean’s increasingly less-subtle attempts to find a hint of a loophole, and playing dumb to the fact that Dean was quickly losing his shit over the whole thing.

“Don’t you care!” Dean had finally exploded a week earlier. He'd spent the evening poring over some creepy Latin manuscript he’d found in Florida and giving increasingly less-subtle hints about how he’d appreciate the help of anyone in the room who had more than a rudimentary grasp of the language. “If you don’t care about dying, fine! But don’t you give a _damn_ that you’re going to hell!”

“Of course I care,” Sam said coldly.

“Then why the fuck won’t you _do anything_!”

“Because I don’t want it to be this!” Sam gestured furiously at the manuscript, “I don’t want to spend the last five months of my life searching for something that doesn’t exist! I _can’t_!” He sighed, “I spent all my life surrounded by hell, and my soul’s going to rot there. I just-I just want to have this one year, just this one year where hell doesn’t define me.”

Just like that, Dean’s rage evaporated, “Alright. Alright Sammy. I get it. I do.” He let out a deep breath, “Feel like finding some geeky-ass documentary?”

So Dean had had one research-free week. One week hunting with, driving with, bickering with, _being_ with his brother. And every time Sam ducked his head and smiled (which was happening more and more) another piece of Dean’s soul died.

Which was why he felt dizzy with relief, like every damned cell in his body was ready to shout (and sob) with joy as he heard John Winchester break down sobbing on the phone. “He’s free, Dean,” John repeated, “He’s safe. Sam is never going to hell.”

 

Sam didn’t speak for a solid thirty seconds after Dean told him, “I don’t . . . _how_ ,” he spluttered.

“Ever heard the rumor that you can kill a demon by burning its bones?” The rest of the God-damned world could have burned to the ground (it almost did) and Dean Winchester would still be grinning.

“Sure,” Sam said, “But demons don’t have bones.”

“Guess you don’t know everything about your kind, demon boy. Turns out they do,” Dean said, “And Dad found Crowley’s . . . it Scotland . . . apparently he was some sleaze looking for an extra couple of inches below the belt.”

Sam frowned, “So what . . . they killed him?”

“Nope. Dad made a little deal of his own. Crowley returns your soul, or his bones get barbequed.”

“And Crowley . . .”

“Said yes,” Dean finished, “You’re home free, Sammy.”

“I . . . I don’t . . .” Sam sank onto the bed. The ancient mattress springs creaked under his weight, and Sam dragged his hands down his face. His fingers left tear tracks in their wake. “You’re sure?” he said finally, looking young and small and hopeful . . . more childlike than Dean had ever seen him.

Dean sank down next to Sam and put his arm around his shoulder, “I’m sure, little brother. You’re safe.” Then he pulled Sam into a hug, and Sam reciprocated, squeezing the air out of Dean’s lungs (literally) while simultaneously tucking his head under Dean's chin.

“Thank you, Dean,” he whispered.

Dean couldn’t have imagined being happier, couldn’t have thought of a single way to make the day more perfect than it already was, until Sam proved him wrong again.

“Hey Dean,” Sam said carefully as Dean helped himself to his third slice of meat lover’s pizza a few hours later.

“Yea Sammy,” Dean said, shooting him a pizza-filled grin.

“Do you . . . do you think you could text J—Dad for me?”

Dean swallowed the pizza with a choked cough, “Sure, yea, Sammy. Of course, I can do that . . . if you want. What do you want me to say?”

Sam carefully inspected the strings of his hoodie, “Just thank you,” he said finally. “Just say Sam says thank you.”

“Sure Sam,” Dean swallowed the lump in his throat, but didn’t quite manage to keep a tear from leaking from his eye, “I can do that.”


	10. February

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And in those days shall men seek death, and shall not find it; and shall desire to die, and death shall flee from them.  
> Or,  
> Things fall apart on Valentine's Day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: This chapter includes depictions of self-harm and discussions of suicide. Take care of yourselves <3

# February

6 And in those days shall men seek death, and shall not find it; and shall desire to die, and death shall flee from them.

Revelation 9

* * *

 

Much to Dean’s surprise (and unspeakable relief) Sam didn’t spend the entire month of February freaking out.

It kinda sucked, honestly, February was, or at least had been, Dean’s favorite month of the year, when the bars were overflowing with the lonely hearts looking for love or the lusters looking for something hot and possibly kinky.

Dean usually spent the night with the latter, although he occasionally found himself waking up in bed with a woman looking for something they both knew he could never give her, and he’d get up and dress quickly without offering to go another round, feeling her eyes stare wistfully at him as he left. Those were the nights he couldn’t help but wonder what it’d be like to sleep with someone for more than a night, to wake up every morning in the same bed with the same woman, maybe even with a ring on his finger and rugrats sleeping in the room next door.

It was ridiculous, of course, and the moment usually passed within a few hours. Dean was a hunter. Hunters didn’t settle down.

It was all a moot point this year, of course, because Dean spent most of his time shielding his brother from all hints of love and sex. There was only so much he could do, of course, because the amount of pink hearts, crappy chocolate, and suggestive lingerie commercials had at least doubled since last Valentine’s Day. Seriously, why did  _every_ diner in America hang ugly pink hearts over _every_ table?

He was looking forward to February 15th more than all the prudish grandparents in America combined.

Which was why he almost dropped his beer when Sam said at around seven p.m. on the fourteenth, “Don’t you want to be heading out soon?”

“What are you talking about?” and Dean really meant it.

“Dean,” Sam rolled his eyes, “I know what day it is. Go out, have fun. It’s your favorite day of the year, right?”

“Sam it’s not that . . .”

Sam held up a hand, “Don’t say it,” he said, “And Dean, I know what you’ve been doing for me, this month especially, and I’m grateful for it. I am. But you don’t need to give up everything for me, man. Go out, have fun. I’ll be fine, I swear.”

Dean narrowed his eyes, considering his brother, “Are you sure, Sam? Seriously I can have fun another day . . .”

“Unattached drifter’s Christmas only comes around once a year, right?” Sam said, twerking his eyebrows.

“How the hell do you know I said that!”

“Dude,” Sam laughed, “You’ve said it _every year_ since you were like fifteen!”

“Yea okay, but . . .” Dean stopped. If Sam could really drop in on him anytime . . . “Sam, he said slowly, “You never . . .”

“I never what?” Sam frowned at him.

“You never . . . you know,”  Dean gestured between them, “ _Watched_ while . . .”

“Holy shit! No! Dude! Gross!” Sam said, lobbing the remote at him, “Now get your pervy ass out of here before I barf!”

 

 

It felt good, better than Dean expected, to get out for a while. He was awkward, at first, like a dewy-eyed sixteen-year-old hitting on a cheerleader for the first time, but after a couple tries and failures, he hit it off with a hot woman named Mandy . . . at least, that’s what she said her name was. He was calling himself Aaron for the night, so he didn’t begrudge her a lie or two.

It wasn’t long before they were back at her place, and _fuck_ it felt good to let go, to feel nothing but softness and warmth, to expect nothing but pleasure and to give nothing else as well. It was so freeing, so _easy_ compared to the one-step-forward, two-step-back roller coaster that had been his life over the past year. Of course he was grateful to have his brother back, wouldn’t trade anything in the world for him, but still, to have one night of simple, selfish pleasure . . .

Dean took his time getting back to the hotel the next morning. He showered at Mandy’s, careful to rid himself of the smell of sex and grabbed a plate of waffles from the diner. It was around 11 when he got back to the hotel, ready for an eye roll from Sam as he read one of his geeky books or even a lead for a new case.

Instead, Dean found an empty room.

Dean drew his gun, “Sam!” he called, “Sammy!” He swept the room and relaxed. All Sam’s gear was there, and light was coming from underneath the bathroom door.

“So!” he called, setting his gun on the table and throwing himself onto the bed, “You’d find us a case? Or did you take the night off by teaching yourself quantum mechanics or something!”

Nothing.

Tense again, Dean stood and went to the door, “Sam! You okay in there?”

He didn’t wait for a reply. By then he could smell the blood.

“Sammy!” he shouted again and kicked the door open. Sam was curled against the bathtub. Blood dripped down his bare chest and slid down his arms into little pools on the tile. Blood was also splattered down the sink. There were even bloody handprints on the mirror.

“Shit shit _shit_ ,” Dean threw himself down by his brother, grabbing a couple of the cheap motel towels as he did. He pressed the towels against his chest, searching for the original wound with one hand while checking Sam’s pulse with the other.

“Sam!” he repeated, and Sam stirred, hissing with pain when Dean pressed the towels against collarbone.

“Sammy!” Dean said, propping his free hand behind Sam’s neck. Sam opened his eyes and looked up blearily at him.

“Sam! What the hell happened? Who did this to you?” Sam blinked uncomprehendingly, but Dean’s went dry as he dabbed away the blood.

Rows of perfect, horizontal cuts crossed the skin beneath Sam’s collarbone. There were even a few, albeit slightly less even, cuts also going vertically, reminding Dean of a gruesome checkerboard.

They were currently hidden beneath Sam’s blood, but Dean knew the cuts covered the words that Crowley had carved into Sam's skin and were still perfectly legible after nearly a year: LILITH’S BITCH.

“ _Fuck_ Sam!” Dean looked down and, sure enough, found a small blade in Sam’s right hand, “What the fuck are you doing!”

“Can see them,” Sam gasped, and Dean startled as Sam leaned into his touch, “No matter what, I can still see them.”

“And you thought to what, cut them out of your skin!” Dean demanded.

“M’sorry,” Sam muttered, tears running down his cheeks, “’M’sorry. M’sorry.”

Dean pulled the towels away. Most of the cuts weren’t deep, and the bleeding had mostly stopped.

Sam was right, though. Despite the new cuts, the words shone more brightly than before.

“You’re okay Sammy,” Dean said as a tear ran down his cheek, “You’re gonna be okay. I’ll fix this. I swear.”

“I wanna die,” Sam breathed.

“Sam! Don’t-”

“I wanna die!” Sam screamed. He grabbed the front of Dean’s shirt in his bloody fist, sobbing in earnest now, “Kill me Dean. Please . . . Kill me!”

Sam repeated the words _“kill me kill me kill me kill me”_ like a prayer as Dean hurriedly bandaged his wounds, stripped him of the remains of his bloody clothes, and guided him to bed. He only stopped an eternity later when his sobs faded into the heavy breathing of sleep.

Dean sat on the other bed, head in his hands, staring at his brother, heedless of the blood coating his clothes and congealing on the bathroom floor.

He didn’t move until the shadows of dusk stretched across both beds, and Dean couldn’t see Sam anymore. He reached into his pocket and drew out his wallet, staring at it for a long moment before opening it with one hand and digging through the mass of fake ids, bills, and receipts until he came across a small, white business card that he hadn’t glanced at since shoving it into his wallet on Christmas Eve.

“I’m gonna fix this, Sammy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait for this update...this chapter needed reworking, and my muse was not helping much . . .   
> Enjoy!


	11. March

# March

16 Know ye not that ye are the temple of God, and that the Spirit of God dwelleth in you?

17 If any man defile the temple of God, him shall God destroy; for the temple of God is holy, which temple ye are.

1 Corinthians 3

* * *

 

As they pulled up in front of Lazarus Ink tattoo parlor, Sam looked nearly as apprehensive as Dean felt, “This isn’t going to work, Dean,” Sam said as Dean switched off the ignition.

Dean didn’t necessarily disagree, but they were fresh out of options, “’S’better than any of your ideas,” he said, more harshly than he intended. Sam flinched at the words but didn’t refute them.

“Castiel said this might help,” Dean said quietly, “I don’t know how he found it or how he knew to recommend it, but he hasn’t led us wrong so far . . . at least, not since he switched sides.”

Sam nodded, “I know.” He heaved a heavy sigh and opened the door, “But if any woman gets within a yard of me with a needle, we’re leaving.”

The exterior of the shop was uncomfortably shabby. The painted brick was stained and peeling, the sidewalk cracked wide enough for weeds to grow through, and the store next to it was boarded up. The only thing that looked new was the white sign with simple, black lettering that read, “Lazarus Ink.”

The interior of the tattoo parlor looked much less suspect. The white tiled floor gleamed, the seats in the waiting area had no suspicious scratches or stains, and the posters of tattoo designs were clean and centered.

“Welcome guys,” a reedy man with dark, almond-shaped eyes and spiked hair with frosted tips said. He was dressed in faded jeans and a maroon polo with the words “Lazarus Ink” embroidered on it, “My name’s James. How can I help you today?”

Dean glanced at Sam, who was surveying the room with a small frown, and said, “M’brother here has been thinking of getting himself a tattoo, and a buddy of ours said you might be the place to go.”

“Well I’m glad to hear that,” James said with a small laugh, “We only opened a year ago, so it’s nice to hear we’re getting some street cred. What’s your friend’s name?”

“It’s uh . . . Cas,” Dean said, “I’m not sure how he found you, so if he doesn’t ring a bell . . .”

“No, I remember him,” James said thoughtfully, “Thought his name was longer though, and kind of weird, no offense to your friend of course.”

“None taken, believe me,” Dean said.

James smiled, “Well I’d be happy to answer any questions you might have,” he said, addressing Sam, “We have a wide range of designs to choose from, but we’re also happy to use any you might have brought . . . almost anything”

Sam didn’t respond until Dean nudged him, “Umm, yea. Yea,” He opened a manila folder and pulled out several pages of hand-drawn designs.

“Interesting,” James said, leafing through the drawings, “Did you come up with these yourself?” He looked up at Sam. Sam, on the other hand, stared at the floor and didn’t seem to have any intention of opening his mouth.

“Sam here’s a bit of a geek,” Dean said lightly, “He found these in some old books he was studying, thought they’d look cool.”

It was sort of true. Sam had gone through an exhaustive list of spell and rune books from Bobby’s library and traced every protective and anti-possession symbol and rune he could find from every culture imaginable.

“They look awesome,” James agreed, “I’m assuming you don’t want me to tattoo these all in one go, so is there one you wanted to start with?” He looked at Sam again, who turned desperately to Dean.

“Or where,” James added, clearly noticing Sam’s agitation, “You can show me where you want it, and I’ll help you find the design that fits best.”

His words did not have their intended effect. Sam’s eyes shuttered, and he drew to his full height while simultaneously digging his hands deeper into the pocket of his sweatshirt.

“That won’t be necessary,” he said curtly, “Thank you for your time. Come on Dean,” and started striding towards the door before Dean could open his mouth.

“Woah,” James said, coming out from behind the counter, “Dude, hold up. Just give me a second.”

Sam froze, hand on the door, but didn’t turn around.

“Listen,” James said, his voice calm and low, as if Sam was a startled colt, “I get why you might be nervous.”

Sam whirled around, face flushed in anger, “Do not,” he spat, “Pretend to know me.”

James flinched but kept approaching, hands raised in submission, “You’re right, man. I don’t. I’m sorry I said that. Just give me sixty seconds to show you something.”

“What?” Sam said coldly.

“One of my tattoos,” James said, “Just—please.” Sam considered him suspiciously for a moment, but nodded, and James let out a slow breath, “Alright.” He tugged off his shirt, slowly, as if not to startle them (Sam). He was skinnier than he looked and not as tattooed as Dean expected. In fact, it didn’t look like James had _any_ until he turned around and showed them an intricate, multi-colored flower pattern stretching between his shoulder blades.

“Look as closely as you want,” James said, glancing over his shoulder, “You can even touch them."

Dean nearly dragged Sam out of the shop right there before this turned into some porno, but Sam actually obeyed, drawing close to James and ghosting a finger over the leafy designs.

“Do you see it?” James asked quietly.

“Yes,” Sam said. The tension drained out of his body and he suddenly seemed . . . softer, somehow, “I’m sorry.”

James shrugged, “You see it, Dean?”

“Um,” Dean joined his brother, feeling more than a little awkward poring over the tattoos on some stranger’s back. He suddenly wondered what would happen if someone walked in on them right then, “You mind helping me out here, Sammy?” he muttered.

“It’s there, Dean,” Sam said, pointing to the center of the flowers and vines, “There’s a Z.”

Dean looked, and there it was, a large, black Z. The rest of the design emanated from it, and Dean needed to look closely to realize that, while the flowers were bright and delicate, the Z was thick, plain, and slightly paler than the rest, as if it was older.

“Z,” James said, shrugging his shirt back on and turning to them with a wry smile, “That’s what everyone called him.”

Sam and James exchanged the same kind of grim recognition John sometimes shared with other vets. Dean was missing something.

“Called who?” he finally said.

“My pimp,” James said simply, not taking his eyes from Sam, “Let’s a second look at those tattoo designs.”

 

James switched the sign on the front of the parlor to “Closed” and led them to a backroom that was setup with tattoo guns and a chair. It gleamed just as much as the rest of the interior.

“Some people want tattoos in more . . . sensitive areas,” If revealing his horrific past to a couple of strangers bothered James, he didn’t show it, “Sometimes it’s because they’re feeling a little naughty,” James quirked an eyebrow, “But here, mostly its people who want to start over.” He glanced back at Sam, joviality suddenly replaced by sincerity again, “Like us.”

Sam nodded, but didn’t speak.

“Trafficking and domestic violence victims, ex-gang members, ex-nazis, ex-cons. We get just about everyone who needs a new beginning.”

“Lazarus,” Sam said quietly as he sat in the chair.

“Exactly,” James said, “Now Sam, before we start, do you want Dean here?”

Dean startled, “Excuse me,” he said, “There’s no way in hell I’m leaving him alone in here with you.”

James spared Dean a warning glare before he turned back to Sam, “This isn’t going to be easy, Sam. So my job’s to make you as comfortable as possible. So you get to choose: do you want Dean here or not?”

Sam looked at Dean, his face indecipherable. After a few seconds he said, “Stay.”

“Damn right,” Dean growled, pulling an extra folding chair from the side of the room next to the pair. Sam cracked a smile.

“Alright,” James said, “Where should we start, Sam?”

Sam’s breath caught, and he turned to Dean, wide-eyed again. For a second, it looked like he was about to bolt, so Dean said, “It’s alright Sammy. A few hours now and the worst will be over.”

“I don’t,” Sam nearly whispered, “I don’t know . . . there are so many . . .”

As always when he thought of the scars coating his little brother’s body, Dean fought the urge to puke. Instead, he smiled, “Let’s start with the one you want to see gone the most.”

Sam hesitated, but nodded and slowly, so fucking slowly, began unbuttoning his shirt. By the time he’d finished and pulled his undershirt off, his face gleamed scarlet.

It took James a moment to take in the patchwork of scars littering Sam’s body, but he said, quicker than Dean thought he would, “Fuck man, you’ve been through a shit storm, haven’t you.”

Sam let out a short, bitter laugh, “That’s one way to put it.”

“Well,” James grinned, “Let’s redecorate, shall we?”

It took hours. Dean hadn’t really thought through how long artists spent on tattoos, but James explained as he worked that it was all up to the level of detail in the tattoo itself and the endurance of both the artist and the customer.

Dean soon lost track of the James and Sam’s plans for the patterns and designs that would begin at his collarbone and travel down his chest, but they were pretty clearly as intricate as it could get. It also turned out that both James and Sam had a fuck-ton of endurance. Dean tried not to think of where they’d both gotten it from.

About half an hour after James started, Dean got up and grabbed a few of the Auto Life and Hunter’s Guide magazines from the lobby, “You want me to grab you a book or something from the car?” he asked.

“No,” Sam said. Dean nodded and tried to sit down with his magazines, but he kept getting distracted watching James’ hands move steadily across Sam’s chest.

“Those are some books you read,” James said as he worked. “I’ve never seen anything like them.”

“They’re wards and sigils,” Sam said after a beat, “For protection, mostly.”

“Well they’re fucking awesome,” James said, “What books did you get them from?”

“Theology,” Sam said, “The occult.”

“Well that fits in with our name,” James said, “I’m going to have to use some of these as examples for future customers.”

“I’ll show you the ones you should give them,” Sam said.

“Thank you,” James said, but like he meant it, like he wasn’t just trying to make small talk with a traumatized giant.

It was another hour before anyone spoke again, and this time, it was Sam.

“She owned me,” he said, and Dean wouldn’t have believed the words had left his brother’s lips if he hadn’t seen it himself.

“Lilith,” James said without breaking the rhythm of his hands.

“It was my fault,” Sam whispered, “I sold myself to her. Even if you cover it up, I’m still . . .”

“Don’t say it Sam,” Dean growled, “Don’t you dare say it.”

Sam looked away, “It’s the truth, Dean.”

“Now you wait a minute,” Dean said, crossing the floor and kneeling in front of Sam in one, swift movement, “You actually believe that? Did that b-“ Sam flinched, and Dean sucked a breath, “Did that _monster_ really make you think that? Because that’s the farthest damn thing from the truth!”

“I think you should listen to your brother, Sam,” James said mildly.

“Damn right you should,” Dean said, “Because _here_ is the truth. You sacrificed yourself for me and God help me I would do anything, _anything_ to go back and take your place.”

“Don’t say that,” Sam said fiercely, “Don’t you dare say that.”

“I _am_ saying that,” Dean shot back, “Because as much as you love to hate yourself, the truth is you gave everything for me, for Dad, for the whole—“ Dean broke off with a quick glance at James, “For _everyone_!” Dean wiped wetness from his eyes, “So don’t you dare, don’t you _dare_ believe for one second the shit those demons fed you because the truth is that you are a goddamn hero, Sam. And don’t you dare forget it.”

Sam didn’t answer, but his eyes were gleaming and he turned his head to stare determinedly at the wall. Dean cupped his brother’s face in his hand for a moment and retreated back to his seat. He abandoned any pretense of reading in favor of watching James’ hands.

“Alright then,” James said a little less than half an hour later, “I think we should call it a day.”

Sam frowned, “You didn’t go much past the . . . my collarbone.”

“I know, man,” James said, “But trust me. Doing this type of thing is a marathon, not a race, aside from getting substantially more painful the further down your chest I go . . . and I know,” he said, overriding Sam’s sound of protest, “You’ve been through a hell of a lot worse, but this is also a mental game. I’ve been doing this long enough to know that both you and your brother are exhausted. So come back in a couple weeks, assuming you like my work, and we’ll keep going, alright?”

Sam stared at James for a long moment, but nodded.

“Great,” James send, extending a hand to help Sam up, “I’ll see you guys in a couple weeks.”

“What about money?” Dean asked, “We can . . .”

James waved him off, “Don’t worry. Your friend more than covered it.”

“He what?” Sam said dumbly, as if he couldn’t comprehend what James had said.

“That’s right,” James said, “A few months back, your friend came in with, I kid you not, a case of money.”

“That sounds like him,” Dean said.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear you say that,” James said with a wink, “Anyway, he gave me your names and said you might be dropping by, and if you did, to give you whatever you needed. Believe me, he was more than generous.”

“I don’t . . .” Sam began, “Why . . .”

“Because he cares, Sam,” James said, “He was as awkward as a pimply twelve-year-old, but he obviously cared.”

“And felt guilty as hell,” Dean growled, “As far as I’m concerned, that’s the least the fluffy bastard owes us.” He patted Sam’s shoulder, “Come on, Sammy. There’s some drinks with our names on them.”


	12. April

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And be not conformed to this world: but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind, that ye may prove what [is] that good, and acceptable, and perfect, will of God.  
> Or,  
> Sam and his hoodie have a show down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is much, much later than my other chapters. Unfortunately, I got a new job, moved to a different state, had virtually nonexistent internet for over a month. Fortunately, the craziness has (mostly) settled, so I should be back to regular updates.

# April

 

I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that ye present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto God, [which is] your reasonable service.

2 And be not conformed to this world: but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind, that ye may prove what [is] that good, and acceptable, and perfect, will of God.

Romans 12:1-2

* * *

 

They ended up visiting James once a week for a month. Thanks to the blood and Sam’s unfortunately high pain tolerance, the scabs from the tattoos healed quickly, and James grudgingly agreed to do more work each time.

The effect was instantaneous. Sam slouched a little less, occasionally looked people in the eye even when they weren’t on a case, and once even shot small, strained smile at their waitress. He didn’t speak for the rest of the day, but Dean still counted it as a win.

However, their crowning achievement came on a blisteringly hot day two weeks after James finished the last tattoo (an intricate Hindu anti-possession symbol). Dean was coming to learn that Colorado had freakishly fickle weather, with freezing cold winds one day and scorching heat the next. Which was how the perfect seventy-three degrees with scattered clouds of yesterday had suddenly climbed past ninety-five.

“I swear,” Dean growled as they left the crappy diner where they (or at least he) had lunch, “I don’t care what Bobby says. There’s got to be something unnatural about this weather.”

“Yea,” Sam snapped, “It’s called global warming.”

“Dude, cut it out,” Dean sighed, “You’ve been pissy all day, and I’m way too tired to read your mind. So do me a favor and tell me what’s eating you.”

“Nothing,” Sam sighed as he opened his door and winced at the blast of stale heat that assaulted him, “S'just hot, is all.”

“You’re like a heater,” Dean agreed, staring meaningfully at Sam’s haggard “University of Kentucky” hoodie, “Shame there’s nothing you can do about that.”

Sam glared at him, his heat-flushed face even redder with fury. Never once in the ten months since this entire fucking deal started had Dean mentioned the omnipresent hoodie. No matter how tense things got, or how out of place they both felt, not even during weeks when Sam went days without showering and literally didn’t take the thing off.  Dean didn’t even know why he was mentioning it now, but he suddenly wanted nothing more than to salt and burn the damn thing in this parking lot.

“Let’s go,” Sam growled.

It was thankfully only a ten minute drive from the diner to the hotel, then Sam would go on a run or head to the library or something to cool down (mentally at least). Dean felt like an ass, of course, but more than that, panic pulsed beneath his skin. He had less than a month and a half before he might lose Sam. Dean couldn’t afford to pick fights now.

“Sam . . .” he began as they pulled up to the hotel.

“No,” Sam cut him off, “You’re right.”

“No, Sam. I was being a jerk. I shouldn’t have . . .”

Sam just opened the door and unfolded himself out of the car as Dean babbled. Then, he started tugging at the hoodie.

Dean broke off and jumped out of the car, “Sam, what the hell are you doing?”

In one, swift motion, Sam pulled the hoodie off, “Like a band aid,” he muttered.

“Sam . . .” But Dean had no words. Sam stood there, bare-chested. His body glistened with sweat so that the patterns of sigils and symbols that now covered his collarbone, chest, and most of his back rippled and Dean thought for one, insane moment that the tattoos were dancing across his brother’s skin.

Dean opened his mouth helplessly again, but gave up and instead pulled his brother into his arms. Sam ducked his head into Dean’s neck, his quiet “thank you” threatening to send tears down Dean’s cheeks.

“Yea well,” Dean said, pulling away, “If you wanna thank me then take a shower because dude, you reek.”

Sam laughed, “And maybe hit up a thrift store or something after . . . I’m kinda low on shirts. Then tonight,” he held up the hoodie, “We salt and burn this bastard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story is finished, and I'll be updating regularly (for real).


	13. May

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And they stoned Stephen, [as he was] calling upon God, and saying, Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.  
> Or,  
> Everything falls apart.

# May

But [Stephen], being full of the Holy Ghost, looked up steadfastly into heaven, and saw the glory of God, and Jesus standing on the right hand of God . . . Then they cried out with a loud voice . . . And they stoned Stephen, [as he was] calling upon God, and saying, Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.

Acts 7: 55-60

* * *

 

Dean hated hospitals.

To be fair, most people did, but most people hadn’t also recovered from a near-fatal stab wound delivered by an arch-angel wearing their father’s skin and promised to kill their brother if that’s what he really wanted in a fucking hospital.

Dean’s opinion of the blasted things did not improve as he and Sam toured the PICU of Saint Joseph’s hospital in Bethpage, New York.

“Apparently the hospital’s calling it pneumonia,” Sam said quietly, “The local elementary school’s just announced it’s cancelling classes until they get a better idea of what’s going on.”

“Yea . . . seven kids falling into comas in seven days will do that,” Dean said grimly.

“You still thinking shtriga?” Sam asked.

Dean nodded, “Hate those fucking things. Let’s go dig through the county records, look to see if any of the same faces shows up. That’s how we . . .”

“You came!”

“You hear that?” Sam said with a frown.

Dean nodded, “Why? It’s probably just . . .”

“Sam!”

Sam froze and turned slowly to face the voice. Dean followed, and he found a girl. She was nine, maybe ten at the most, with long blonde hair and skin that looked gray against the white of the hospital pillows. Dean supposed she would have been cute, the kind of girl grandmas fawned over, if it wasn’t for the miles of tubes crisscrossing her body.

“Do you know each other?” Dean asked, looking between Sam and the little girl.

Sam seemed incapable of speech, but the girl piped up again “He was there. When the smoke took my body.”

Sam made a quiet, pained sound, and Dean reached for the flask of holy water in his pocket.

“She’s not possessed,” Sam whispered, “Not anymore.”

“She killed my Mommy and my Daddy,” the girl said, “Lilith did. With my hand, like this,” she raised her hand and flicked her fingers.

Sam flinched and Dean grabbed his elbow, ready to drag his brother out the hospital, out of the state. Bobby could find another hunter to take the case.

Sam tugged his arm out of Dean’s grip with a slight shake of his head, “It wasn’t you,” he said, taking a step towards the bed, “Do you understand me? It wasn’t you.”

The girl nodded with wide eyes, and her lips trembled a little, but her voice was strong when she said, “I know, and I didn’t hurt you on purpose either. She made me.”

“That’s right,” Sam said hoarsely. Tears gathered in his eyes, and he slowly reached out with a trembling hand and laid it on top of the girl’s head, “What’s your name?”

“Stephanie,” the girl said, “Is your name really Sam?”

Sam nodded.

Stephanie smiled and turned to look at Dean, “And who are you?”

Dean cleared his throat, “Um . . . I’m . . . my name’s Dean.”

Stephanie’s eyes widened, “You’re _Dean!_ ” she gasped and her face broke out into a grin, “Sam loves you so much!”

Sam blushed deeply red and Dean opened his mouth to say . . . something, but Sam beat him to it, “What happened Stephanie?”

“My heart is broken,” Stephanie pointed to her chest, “I’m waiting for the doctors to give me a new one, but I don’t think it’s going to come in time.”

Sam’s breath caught, and tears leaked down his face, “Oh Stephanie . . . I’m so sorry.”

“That’s okay,” Stephanie said gravely, “It’s not your fault, and you killed her, right? I felt it. I felt it and I saw it. You clenched your first and she screamed and now she’s dead, right?”

Sam opened his mouth but no sound came out, “That’s right,” Dean said, “She’s dead, and she won’t hurt anyone ever again.”

“So you saved the world!” Stephanie gasped. Her eyes went wide again and refused to leave Sam’s face, “Cause she wanted to end it, so that means you saved it!”

“No Stephanie I . . .” Sam began, but Stephanie reached up and lifted Sam’s hand off her head with both of her own. Her tiny, weak fingers looked like spider webs compared to his, but Sam made no move to pull away. She opened his fingers and held his hand up to her face, as if she could see the power pumping through his veins.

Maybe she could.

Stephanie frowned and laid Sam’s hand in her lap, “You got hurt,” she said, touching the small, white print in Sam’s palm gently, “Like Jesus.”

Sam flinched again and pulled his hand away, “No Stephanie it’s not . . . I wasn’t . . . I’m not . . .”

But Stephanie just shook her head and opened her arms, “It’s okay, Sam. She did bad things to us, but she’s gone now.”

Sam hesitated, but he leaned over and allowed Stephanie to wrap her arms around him. They stayed that way for a long moment, long enough for the tension to drain out of Sam’s muscles. He wrapped his arm gently around Stephanie’s shoulders and kissed the top of her head.

“I’m happy you came to see me, Sam,” she said as he pulled away.

Sam cleared his throat and wiped his face with his jacket sleeve. The tears were beginning to fall more rapidly, and Sam’s body vibrated with tension. Dean knew that if Sam stayed here any longer, he would crumble to pieces. He couldn’t believe his brother had managed this long.

“We’ve gotta go now, Stephanie,” Dean said, laying a firm hand on Sam’s shoulder.

“We’ll be back—I’ll come back tomorrow. I promise,” Sam said as Dean led him away from the bed.

Stephanie just smiled. She was still smiling when they reached the door and waved them goodbye. Sam gave her a small, watery smile and returned her wave before turning and leading the way down the hall.

Sam didn’t say a word, didn’t even glance at Dean as he strode out of the hospital with Dean jogging to keep up. He had never considered the possibility that Lilith possessed more than one person-- or that he and Sam might run into one of her victims. Even if he had, Dean never would have thought it would be in a fucking PICU. He didn’t want to imagine the hell Lilith had put them both through.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Sam said after they got into the Impala.

“Sam . . .” Dean began.

“I don’t . . . I’m not _going_ to talk about it, Dean,” Sam insisted, “Now let’s deal with that shtriga.”

 

 

They didn’t manage figure out who the shtriga was by nightfall, so instead they showed up at the room of the last victim’s older sister and pumped its chest full of iron as it tried to feed on her soul.

“You’re going to be okay,” Dean assured her, “That thing was a monster, a shtriga, if you want to read up on it. But it’s gone now, and your brother’s gonna wake up soon.”

“How’d you know,” she whispered. Her lips trembled, and Dean figured they had about thirty seconds before the waterworks started.

“It’s what me and my brother do,” Dean said, flicking his eyes toward Sam as he gathered empty shells from the floor.

“We gotta go, Dean,” Sam said briskly without meeting his eyes, “Police’ll be on their way.”

“I-I won’t t-tell them about you,” the girl said, “I’ll say I-I was playing with my Dad’s gun or something.”

“We appreciate it,” Dean said, “Take care.”

They left her that way, sitting alone in her bed with a sudden, ugly knowledge about the things that lurked in the dark, and yet, the image that chased Dean into his fitful sleep was of Stephanie tracing the scar in Sam’s palm.

 

 

Sam shook Dean awake a little before dawn, “We need to go to the hospital,” he said.

“Shtriga?” Dean asked.

“Stephanie,” Sam said curtly.

Dean jolted out of bed, glad he hadn’t bothered to change when they stumbled in a few hours ago, and pulled on his boots, “What happened?”

“Heart attack,” Sam replied in that same, curt voice that scared Dean more than his brother’s tears or monsters that fed on children’s souls.

“How do you . . .”

“Saw it,” Sam said, opening the hotel door and disappearing into the night. Dean had no choice but to follow.

 

 

They reached the operating room seconds after Stephanie’s aunt did and overheard the doctor’s quiet explanation that they were very sorry, but there was nothing they could do, and would they like to see her now?

Sam didn’t wait for the aunt’s tears to start, just turned his heel and strode away. Dean followed silently but couldn’t contain his sound of surprise when Sam made a sharp right down the hall with the sign that read “Prayer Room.”

“Sam . . .”Dean began when his brother stopped in front of the door.

“Leave me,” Sam said.

“Sam, please . . .”

“You can either leave now, or I will _order_ you to,” Sam growled. “The choice is yours.”

Dean froze. Sam had never threatened to use his mind control on him, not since before he killed Lilith.

“Now Dean!” Sam roared.

Dean obeyed.

 

 

He returned a couple hours later with a stomach full of coffee and whiskey and a half-formed plan to drag Sam out of that hospital and take him . . . . somewhere.

His bravado quickly evaporated when he saw that his brother was not alone.

“There was nothing to be done,” Castiel said. He was seated next to Sam, but he had lost his stiff, soldier-like posture. Instead, he was leaning over, elbows resting on his knees and his head turned to face Sam. He was, Dean realized, trying to meet Sam’s eyes, but Sam’s head hung too low, and his eyes were too fixed on his hands.

“Bullshit,” Sam said, “You’re a fucking angel, and I prayed to you _dozens_ of times since we found her.”

The angel sighed, and anger surged through Dean. It hadn’t occurred to him to call the angel, to do anything to save Stephanie.

Of course, Sam it had occurred to Sam.

“Angels cannot answer every prayer. There is a natural order to the universe.”

“Her heart gave out because her body had been possessed by a _demon_ ,” Sam growled, “And you dare throw your natural order shit at me!”

“No,” Castiel said, “I’m telling you what she told me.”

Sam’s head jerked up, and he finally met the angel’s eyes, “What?”

“I came to her immediately after you prayed to me,” Castiel said, “I explained who I was and that I could heal her. She refused.”

“ _Why?”_ Sam’s voice had lost its dangerous edge. He now sounded like a pleading child. Dean rubbed his eyes and found water there.

“She said she was at peace,” Castiel said, “She was ready to move on, and now her soul rests in heaven.”

For a while, all Dean could hear was the conglomeration of beeping and echoing voices that formed the background of every hospital. He nearly entered the room, but then Sam spoke again.

“What is heaven?”

Castiel leaned back and sighed at the same moment Dean stopped breathing.

“Heaven,” he said slowly, “Is different for everyone. It is created from memories. Right now Stephanie is reliving the best moments of her life, times when she was happy and safe with the people who love her.”

“And for me?” Sam’s voice barely carried to Dean, but his heart still stopped at the words all the same.

“It will be the same for you,” Castiel said solemnly, “Your place in heaven is assured, Sam Winchester, and when you reach there, you will spend eternity in the times and places where you were happiest.”

“Like Stephanie,” Sam said slowly.

Castiel nodded and stood, “She found peace, and someday, you will too.”

With that, the angel disappeared, and Dean thundered in.

“Sam!”

“Leave me Dean.”

“No, Sam . . . Sammy you gotta listen to me. Don’t . . .”

_“Leave,”_ Sam commanded.

Immediately, Dean’s body turned and began walking itself down the hall. Dean fought it with every fiber of his being, his mind screaming for his limbs to obey him.

It did nothing. Before Dean knew it, he was walking out of the building, getting into the Impala, and driving back to the hotel.

He screamed curses at Sam, Castiel--and occasionally God—the entire way.

No one answered.

 

It was nearly midnight when Sam finally returned to the hotel.

Dean had long run out of curses and was instead sitting on his bed, staring at the blank TV screen while nursing a bottle of Jack and wondering if his brother would ever walk through that door. Wondering what he’d do if he didn’t.

He jumped to his feet when the door clicked, whiskey sloshing in his half-empty bottle and his fully empty stomach.

“You son of a bitch,” he slurred when Sam entered.

Sam froze. The door swung shut behind him with a loud _click_. They were mere apart, but it felt like a chasm straight out of a Star Wars movie had opened up between them at Dean’s words.

Dean thought of endless scars buried beneath black ink, of blood leaking from letters carved in Sam’s chest, of Lilith’s hands trailing possessively up Sam’s chest and her lips to his ear.

Most of Dean. Hell, nearly all of him screamed at himself to shut up, to apologize, to fall on his knees and beg Sam not to leave again.  

But the whiskey roared in his stomach and his ears, drowning out everything except fury and pain.

“You fucking son of a bitch!” he roared.

Sam didn’t speak, didn’t look at him. He just turned and walked out the door.

“No . . . wait. Sam . . . Sammy!”

Dean stumbled after his brother, the bottle of jack slipping from his fingers and seeping into the carpet.

“Sammy!”

But Sam was too fast, inhumanely fast, and Dean far too drunk. Dean had only made a few feet into the darkness before Sam disappeared from sight.


	14. June

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear  
> Or,  
> Sam makes a choice.

# June

18 There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear

1 John 4

* * *

 

If Dean was a better brother, hunter, human . . . anything really . . . he’d have never touched another drop of alcohol.

But he wasn’t, which is why he replaced his spilled bottle of Jack that same day . . . about ten minutes after a falsely cheerful automated voice told him that Sam’s number had been disconnected, and would he like to try again?

After two days of fruitless searching in the area immediately surrounding the hospital and the motel, Dean swallowed his pride and headed for Sioux Falls. Bobby rushed out of the house as he pulled up, John hobbling after him, both their faces stricken with worry as they watched Dean climb heavily out of the car.

“Dean . . .” John began, “Where’s . . .”

“Gone,” Dean said, “He’s gone.”

John clutched his chest and hunched over on himself, eyes wide and mouth hung open like a dying fish.

“What d’you mean, gone?” Bobby demanded. Dean focused on him: he could handle the old man’s anger so much easier than his father’s pain.

“He left,” Dean said, “Walked out.”

“But he’s not . . .” John began.

“Not dead,” Dean finished, “At least not yet.”

“Well get inside,” Bobby said, “Grab a beer, and tell us what the hell happened. Then we’ll see if we can’t find a way to track the kid down.”

They couldn’t, and they’d all known they couldn’t. Dean figured their only hope was Cas, so he took to muttering constant, profanity laden prayers as he sifted through police reports, traffic cams, and the hunter rumor mill. When the angel finally came, two days later, he looked even graver than usual.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” he said without preamble, “I’ve been searching from the moment you called, but there’s no trace of Sam.”

“Seriously!” Dean exploded, “You wait this long to tell me you’ve got nothing! What the fuck kind of angel are you!”

It wasn't fair, of course. This wasn’t Castiel's fault, wasn’t anyone’s fault. Except his.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Castiel said quietly, and he looked like he meant it. That only made it worse. Dean turned away, wiping his hand down his face.

"I will . . . keep watch and tell you if he appears."

"Appears where?" Dean growled.

Castiel hesitated, "In heaven, Dean."

Without a word, Dean spun around and slammed his fist into the angel's face. It felt like punching a brick wall.

The angel sighed, "You can hit me again, if that helps."

"Out!" Dean roared, "Get  _out!_ " The angel obeyed, and Dean sunk to the floor and held his head in his hands.

He left Bobby's the next day. 

 

 

Dean kept searching, crisscrossing the country and even dipping across both sides of the border chasing half-hearted leads, and he kept drinking, trying to drown out the memory of Stephanie touching the nail print in Sam’s palm, the sound of his own voice shouting “ _bitch!”_ and, most of all, the promise he made almost one year ago.

_Give me one year to break the deal and convince you stay . . . I don’t, and I’ll kill you myself._

For all the listless hours Dean spent in the empty Impala or in the bottom of a bottle, June sped vengefully by. It felt like seconds instead of days passed between the moment Dean lost Sam in the darkness to the night before the deal came due—the night before Sam would die.

Dean just prayed Sam would at least call first.

He didn’t think he’d be able to change Sam’s mind—not really. The kid had been through too much. More than some tattoos and a few Zeppelin albums could fix. Then they’d found—and lost—Stephanie, and Dean, the callous piece of shit that he was, went and flung words at Sam that cut deeper than any knife.

The only thing Dean had figured out through those long hours of nothingness was that as much as he couldn’t stand the idea of killing Sam—and seriously, the thought made him gag and pull over until his blurred vision returned to something approaching normal—the thought of not saying goodbye was worse.

More than that, Dean couldn’t let his brother die alone.

That was why, instead of pretending to try sleeping the night before the anniversary of their deal, Dean sat in the parking lot of a Walmart just off I-70 staring at his phone waiting, hoping, hell even praying, that it would ring.

When his screen lit up at half past two in the morning, a little less than fifteen hours to the minute Dean had made his deal with Sam, Dean answered before the thing had a chance to make a sound.  

“Sammy?”

“Dean.”

Was that relief in Sam’s voice? Or was Dean deluding himself? He was good at that, where Sam was concerned.

“Sam! Are you alright? Where are you?”

“I’m fine, Dean. I’m in Oregon. On the coast.” Any trace of warmth had disappeared, now. Sam now sounded distant, almost automated.

_Oregon_ Dean thought. _What the hell’s in Oregon?_

“Listen Sam,” he said, “I’m so fucking sorry for what I said before, at the motel. I’m so . . .”

“It’s fine, Dean,” Sam interrupted. _But why? Had he made his piece with all the shit Dean pulled because he was ready to kick back and relax in the clouds?_ “I’m sorry I left. I just . . . I just needed time to figure everything out.”

“Sure Sammy . . . I get that,” Dean lied.

“Where are you?” Sam asked.

“Lawrence,” Dean said. He had thought that maybe Sam would want to end things where they started.

Apparently not.

“Okay, give me a second,” Sam said. For a minute or so, all Dean heard was the rustle of heavy paper as Sam undoubtedly flipped through an atlas. Then Sam said, “Can you meet me in Oasis, Nevada? It’s about half-way.”

“Sure Sammy,” Dean managed. “I’ll be right there.”

“Alone,” Sam said quickly, “Without Bobby  or Jo—D-dad.”

Dean closed his eyes and nodded, “Promise.”

“I’ll see you soon, Dean,” Sam said.

The line went dead.

 

 

The smudge of desert known as Oasis, Nevada had 29 people, five crappy places to eat, one two-pump gas station, and one broken-down building with a dirty sign that read “Oasis Motel.” There was a faded, greenish blob beneath the words. Dean assumed it was supposed to be a tree.

There weren’t any trees here. Not for miles.  

He pulled into the cracked, faded parking lot, parked in front of a hideous brown door with a peeling 112 on it, and shut off the ignition. He rubbed his hand down his face and stared at the dusty building. Sam had called a couple hours earlier and said to meet him  in room 112 and then hung up before Dean could speak.

It wasn’t a good sign.

Dean sat in the car, sweat pouring down his face in the 100 degree heat, staring at the door. Exactly one year ago, he had promised to kill Sam if he couldn’t convince him to stay. They had been words then, a gamble he hadn’t hesitated to take, because he hadn’t seen another option, because he never thought he’d end up here, in the middle of the Nevada desert, about to make good on that promise.

He’d found his brother and they’d saved the world. How could he fail at convincing Sam to see the point of sticking around to enjoy it?

Except he had. And he owed it to Sam to stay true to his word.

The problem was, his body refused to move.

The motel door opened, and Sam stepped out. The sight of his brother finally jolted Dean into action, and he launched himself out of the car and at his brother, engulfing him in a hug. Sam reciprocated immediately, and for a long, long moment, neither moved. Dean willed for time to stop, for them to stay there forever, without moving or speaking. Just together, and alive.

Instead, Sam pulled away, “Good to see you, Dean,” he said, meeting Dean’s eyes for a moment before staring down at the broken concrete.

Dean cleared his throat, “You too, Sammy.”

“Come on,” Sam said, half-meeting Dean’s eyes again, “Let’s get inside. The AC works okay, and it’s hot as hell out here.”

He opened the door and stepped inside. Dean followed silently, barely sparing a glance for the shabby room. The door clicked shut, and Sam flicked the light on.

“I got you beer,” he said, crossing to the micro fridge and setting a six pack on the rickety table, “And pizza, he pointed to a cardboard box next to the beer. I got a couple of those mini pies you like too: the gas station ones that come in those rectangle packages. I know you can never decide if you like cherry or lemon best, so I got both, since I figured . . .”

“Woah dude,” Dean said weakly, “Slow down.”

Sam hesitated for half a moment then said, “I just know you haven’t eaten in ages so . . .”

“I don’t give a damn about food, Sam!” Dean didn’t quite shout, but it was close.

Sam didn’t flinch, didn’t yell back. He just let out a long, slow breath, “I know.”

“The only thing I _do_ care about is keeping you here, with the living. What can I do to help you do that?”

“I . . . I don’t know, Dean.” Sam sank into the chair next to the table. Dean took the chair opposite and leaned forward to meet Sam’s eyes. Sam, however, kept his eyes fixed on his hands. He rubbed his right thumb in the palm of his left hand, then his left thumb in his right hand, then back again: back and forth, back and forth.   

Dean rubbed his eyes, “Listen Sammy. I know I don’t get what you’ve been through. I know it takes every ounce of strength you have to wake up every day. I know losing Stephanie hurt you bad, and then I went and kicked you in the balls . . . but Sammy, please. So much else happened this year, and I _know_ you liked some of it: all the people we saved, those long, quiet drives, the books you kept losing yourself in . . . hell you even enjoyed that day we marathoned _I Love Lucy_ when I was down with the stomach flu a little . . .

Sam nodded into his hands, “I know.”

“So please,” Dean begged, “I need you to keep going. However you wanna do it: with me, without me, hunting or not. Hell, I don’t care if you turn become a swamp hermit like fucking yoda . . . “ Sam tried to smile at that, but it mostly made him look like he wanted to puke. “I just need you _here_ , man. I just . . . need you.”

“I . . .” Sam took a wet, shuddering breath and pressed his hands to his face. When it became clear he had no intention of moving them soon (if ever) Dean got up, moved to the other end of the table, crouched down, and gently pried his brother’s fingers away.

“Hey there little brother,” he said, when Sam finally looked at him with bloodshot eyes.

“I’m so _tired_ , Dean,” Sam sobbed, “I’m so _fucking tired_. And I know, I _know_ you can’t stand to lose me, and God knows I need you, but I’m so, so _tired_. Every cell in my body is screaming for _rest_. So what am I supposed to do?”

“Sammy . . .” Dean breathed.

Sam didn’t seem to hear him, “One year is so _long_. It’s so goddamned long! And how can I do this over and over and over when I see _her_ face every night! When some days I _feel_ my skin ripped off again and again, or I feel her lips . . .” His sobs overtook him, and Sam buried his face back in his hands.

Dean leaned back on his haunches and watched helplessly as his brother cried. Sick dread twisted in his stomach: he had no answers. There was nothing he could shoot or fight or kill to fix this. He could resurrect and kill Lilith a thousand times, and it wouldn’t make a difference.

Maybe there was nothing to be done. Maybe it would be better to . . .

He stiffened.  _No. This is not how this ends._

“Did you know,” he said finally. “That some dumb-ass farmers accidentally made their own hot-water oasis?

Sam lowered his hands again, “What?” he said blankly.

“It’s true,” Dean said, "And it looks a hell of a lot better than this place," he gestured around the room. He was completely spitballing. The story had popped into his head, and he couldn't imagine how it could possibly make things better. He just knew he couldn’t let them both sit there thinking about all the reasons Sam should die. And if Dean Winchester could do anything, he could paste a smile on his face and talk out of his ass.

So, Dean nodded, eyes wide like this could somehow help anything, “Some idiots were drilling for water, pretty close to around here actually--I think. Definitely somewhere in Nevada. Anyway, they were looking for water for drinking or crops or whatever, but they drilled into this massive geyser that blasted boiling water right in one of their faces just like Looney Tunes!”

Sam pursed his lips and glared the best he could through his tear-drenched face.

“Okay, well that last bit might not be true,” Dean admitted with an attempt at a cheeky grin, “But the rest of it is, and these fuckers were pissed off or bored or something, so they went on their way without closing up the hole they’d dug in the ground right. Suppose none of them thought it mattered, ‘cause it was just a patch of desert anyway.”

“What’s your point, Dean?” Sam snapped.

_There probably isn’t one_ , “Just give me a second,” Dean lied, “I’m getting there. Turns out, while the geyser blasted out that damn water, it was also blasting out some kind of mineral . . . don’t ask me what. Your geeky ass will just have to look it up on Wikipedia or something.”

Sam opened his mouth—probably to suggest what kind of mineral it was—before shutting it again.

“Anyway, over the years all the minerals the water was blasting out built up and made these rock formations. The whole thing looked pretty awesome by itself—steaming water blasting out of some rocks surrounded by flat desert, but _then_ the cool shit started.”

Sam was frowning now, and Dean could see his genius mind whirling. Maybe he was getting something out of this long-ass monologue.

“The kicker is, even though this water was useless to humans, other things liked it just fine. Soon this water plant stuff-“

“Algae probably,” Sam said.

Dean rolled his eyes dramatically, “Whatever, _algae_ started growing all over these rocks, in all sorts of different colors—greens and reds and shit—the whole fucking rainbow, and the whole thing—rocks, _algae_ and all, has just kept growing, for decades, and doesn’t look like it’s going to anytime soon.”

Sam frowned, but it was his thinking frown, and Dean _finally_ had an idea of where he could go with this . . .

“Dad heard about it, years ago . . . pretty sure I was technically still in high school He decided we needed to check it out to see if it was the home of some desert god or something. Nothing, we figured, so awesome could just _happen.”_

Sam had stopped crying. His red-rimmed eyes pierced Dean more intensely than they ever had before.

Dean’s heart pounded, and hope traitorously rushed through him. _Maybe, just maybe . . ._

He kept talking.

“But it did. It just _happened_. There’s a mini mountain of rainbow rocks made from a boiling geyser in the middle of fucking  _Nevada_ just _because._ Because some farmers were lazy idiots. Because science is weird. Because shit just _happens . . ._ ” He took a deep breath, “But Sammy, I know it can be damn near impossible to believe, but not all that shit is necessarily . . .”

“Shitty,” Sam completed quietly.

Dean nodded, “Exactly.”

“Must be quite the tourist trap,” Sam said slowly, “Something that spectacular in a place as ugly as this,” he gestured vaguely at the window.

_He wants to see it. He wants to_ see it! Dean nearly punched the air in triumph. Instead, he just shook his head and clicked his tongue.

 “Wrong again. You see, this whole thing happened on some dude’s private property, and all this time, he’s refused to sell it. Sometimes a few people can sweet talk him into showing them around, but it’s not often. He only let me and Dad in when Dad started flashing a badge.”

“Really . . .” Sam said quietly. He looked away from Dean and stared thoughtfully out the window.

Dean held his breath and waited.

The seconds dragged by as a dozen different emotions danced in Sam’s eyes, at the corners of his mouth, in the furrows of his brow. Dean’s ass hurt from being in that strange, half-crouching, half-kneeling position for too long, and he couldn’t feel his feet. He still didn’t dare move.

“Hey Dean,” Sam said finally, “Do you wanna check out some old guy’s rainbow rocks?”

Dean smiled, and meant it this time, “Sure Sammy.”

In one, fluid motion, Sam stood and pulled Dean to his feet. He wiped the last of his tears away and glanced around the empty room, “I have a few things in the car . . .”

“You wanna grab them?”

Sam hesitated, “No,” he shook his head, “No,” he said more firmly, “Let’s just go.”

Dean’s grin broadened, “Okay then!” He nearly ran to the door. They needed to get moving before Sam changed his mind.

“Hey Dean . . .”

Dean froze and turned back towards his brother. To his astonishment, Sam grinned and threw something— _two_ somethings—at him.

He caught them instinctively and looked down. They were two small, now slightly squished, gas station pies. Lemon and cherry—his favorites.

Sam approached the door, smiling mischeviously, “I don’t wanna have to hear your stomach complaining the whole drive . . . bitch."

For half a second, Dean froze, but Sam was still smiling, a broad, if anxious smile that held both apology and forgiveness.

Dean grinned, and grinned, and tried desperately to think of a reply, but the only word that rolled off his tongue was . . .

“Jerk.”

Sam laughed, full on belly-laughed, “ _Jerk._ That’s what you come up with . . . _jerk?”_

Before Dean could respond—and to be honest, his mind was still blank—Sam pulled him into a bone-crushing hug. Dean hugged him back, pulling his little brother as close as he could. Sam tucked his chin into Dean’s shoulder. Dean closed his eyes and focused on the rise and fall of Sam’s chest.

Then Sam broke away, “ _Jerk!”_ he chortled, pulling the door open and leading the way to the Impala.

Dean Just grinned and followed, pulling open a now-completely squished pie as he did.

He’d come up with a better comeback. Until then, he and his brother were off to see a man-made rainbow oasis.

They’d figure out the rest as they went.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep! The place Dean was talking about is [real](http://www.snopes.com/photos/natural/flygeyser.asp/)!
> 
> Only the epilogue remains . . .


	15. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now abideth faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love.  
> Or,  
> God and Death discuss the Winchesters over lunch.

# Epilogue

(13)And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.

1 Corinthians 13

* * *

 

 It was an apology, of sorts, a “sorry I left you to be enslaved by my son during the apocalypse,” lunch.

“This is supposed to have the best chicken and dumplings south of the Mason-Dixon line,” God said eagerly as a gangly-teenage waiter ushered them into a red vinyl- covered booth. The plastic had split at one of the edges, dirty, yellow-orange foam spilling out.

“I see,” Death replied. The gangly teenager was glancing nervously at him, undoubtedly ill-at-ease with his slicked-back hair, crisp black suit, and matching cane. If he had bothered, Death could have brushed his consciousness against the boy’s mind and heard him wonder what a man such as himself was doing with the bum in a ratty t-shirt and jeans with a ragged beard and bloodshot eyes. 

The waiter could never have guessed that the bum in question had spun his soul into being, or that his well-dressed companion would one day oversee his journey to paradise or damnation.

They made their orders: Death the famed chicken and dumplings and God a greasy cheeseburger.

“Keeping in character, I see,” Death commented as the waiter walked away.

“I’m a method actor,” God replied.

“There was never any need to act,” Death said, “And even less so now. It’s over.”

“Who would’ve thought,” God shook his head, “I never even got to make my cameo.”

“Ah,” Death nodded, “So _that_ is why we are here.”

God just grinned and launched into a wandering monologue on the wonders of nacho cheese. After making a small, disparaging remark about the yellow goop not qualifying as food, Death mostly ignored his companion. God had grown restless over the past few centuries, creating one meaningless persona after the next, filling his mind (and Death’s whenever they saw each other) with inanities. It was a phase, an annoying one, but a phase regardless.

The waiter brought them their food. God dug gleefully into his rubbery hamburger, moaning in pleasure as mustard dripped into his beard.

Death raised an eyebrow at the pile of mush claiming to be the best chicken and dumplings in the state, but raised his knife and fork anyway. Sometimes he was surprised, after all.

Just not often.

Death was on his fifth bite of gummy dumblings, and God had just begun digging into his lukewarm French fries when the bell on the door tinkled and the brothers walked in. Dean led the way, shooting charming smiles at a group of attractive women sitting in the corner while still looking for dangers and potential exits. Sam followed closely behind him. His shoulders hunched a little, and he kept his eyes to the floor, but he also scoured the diner for threats.

Both pairs of eyes stopped briefly at their booth, taking in their odd pairing. In the end, though, Sam and Dean spent only a second longer examining God and Death than the group of truckers seated behind them.

God sniffed, “Barely noticed us.”

“Well if you want to get their attention, simply introduce yourself,” Death said coolly. “Dean Winchester, I am sure, would relish the opportunity to break your nose.”

“I’d just go by Chuck,” the God said as a waiter set their food in front of them, “The other name . . . it’s just too big.”

“I wish you would get over this mid-life crisis of yours. It’s getting dull.”

“You’re one to talk,” God shot back, “Remember a certain Jesus of Nazareth?”

Death’s lips tightened. Yes, Jesus. The prophet’s soul had shined brighter than any other Death had seen. When he hung, bleeding, bruised, and suffocating on a cross, and asked why God had forsaken him, God had shaken his head.

“Another prophet killed by his own,” he’d said bitterly, “I don’t know why I bother.” Then he’d left and distracted himself by destroying a few stars in a distant galaxy.

Death meant to leave, but instead found himself watching the brilliance of Jesus’ soul as his body fought for breath. He sighed, stepped forward, and brushed the prophet’s brow. There was no reason to prolong the end.

“You have done all you can,” he said as he and Jesus watched as a centurion stuck a spear into his empty body.

“There’s so much more,” Jesus replied, looking back as the faithful in the crowd wept.

“This is the way of things,” Death replied, “Death follows life. Life does not follow death.”

“That’s not how it has to be,” Jesus had said, meeting Death’s eye.

Three days later, Death had visited the prophet in heaven as he sat on a rugged mountain, watching his disciples pass bread and fish to a hungry crowd.

“Would you like to try and do more?” he had asked.

Jesus showed himself to Mary Magdalene, to his Apostles, to doubting Thomas. He comforted, guided, and taught. His followers praised God, and Jesus let them, but he thanked Death in his heart.

Then came the Day of Pentecost, the day Jesus of Nazareth decided to help his closest apostles find the Divine within themselves. He split himself into twelve, gifting each follower with a portion of his soul. If the man the world came to call Christ was anything, he was a man who gave for his brothers.

His brothers wept with joy upon receiving a portion of their brother’s light and assured each other he would return a second time. Death had wept to see the brightest of souls destroy itself with love.

“See,” God had said, “See what happens when we get too close?”

So they both stepped back, let heaven, hell, and humanity run their course. When that course began hurtling towards the apocalypse, God grew sentimental enough to see the ending for himself, but not enough to intervene.

 

Which brought them back here, to this diner in no-where South Carolina, watching Dean Winchester order the same hamburger God had chosen twenty minutes prior. Death pushed his plate away, “I don’t know what that is, but it is _not_ the best chicken and dumplings south of the Mason-Dixon Line.”

“Anyone tell you you’re too picky?” God said through a mouth of French fries, “Anyway, look at them.”

He nodded at the brothers. Dean handed the waiter the menu with a smile before leaning over and speaking quietly to his brother. Sam, for his part, hunched forward a little further and stared fixedly at his hands.

“Dean Winchester talking his younger, part-human brother through what they euphemistically call a ‘bad day,’” Death said coolly, “This has happened a hundred times.”

“And it’ll happen a hundred more,” Chuck agreed, “Because those two bastards tore up the rule book and stomped on it for good measure.”

“ _Your_ rulebook,” Death said, stealing one of God’s French fries. It wasn’t any better than the dumplings.

“Exactly!” God grinned, “Those two told hell _and_ heaven to screw themselves. Despite everything, maybe _because_ of everything, they chose each other.” His face fell a little, undoubtedly thinking of the sister he’d betrayed and locked away forever for the sake of this crappy diner and two brothers who would never have made the same choice.

God straightened his shoulders and stood, looking for distraction, “I’m going to introduce myself,” he announced. He strode over to the table, blubbering about how they looked exactly like the characters he had painted over and over again before making a great show of being dumbfounded at seeing their car, which also featured prominently in his "art", through the window.

Sam and Dean immediately exchanged dark, suspicious glares and demanded where God (or Chuck, as he introduced himself) had gotten his information.

Death rolled his eyes and stood without bothering to pay. He edged around the quickly escalating conversation between God and his two favorite children and opened the door.

The bell tingled again. Dean was in the middle of a long, creative description of what he’d do to God if “he didn’t spill his beans right now,” but Sam looked up.

It was a worn and tired cliché that the eyes are the windows into the soul, but it happened to be true. Sam Winchester met Death’s eyes, and Death saw his soul.

Death had seen countless souls in the eons since the beginning of creation: souls of the righteous, the wicked, the exalted, the damned, and the countless unremarkable souls that fell in between.

Death had only met one other soul that shone as bright as Sam Winchester’s. The boy’s soul was battered, true, worn and scarred. The dark smoke of hell still surrounded it, obscuring parts from view. But even the darkest clouds were temporary, inconsequential compared to the brilliance of the sun.

Sam frowned, glancing suspiciously between Death and God, astute mind whirling. The moment their gaze broke, Sam would forget their interaction, forget he’d ever seen a man in a dark suit and cane accompanying the “drunk” accosting them.

Death bowed his head, eyes still meeting Sam’s own. Sam’s frown deepened, but he nodded slowly back.

“Sam,” Dean said, still glaring at his Creator. Sam looked away, refocusing on the seeming crisis at hand. God was gesticulating wildly, and Dean was about to insist they “check out these fucking paintings.” They would go and find canvas after canvas depicting their lives in all their gruesome, loving, world-saving detail. Both brothers would become even more frightened and enraged. They would try to force God to destroy them. He would pretend to agree. But he was God, after all.

Then Sam and Dean would return to their nauseating hotel room and have an equally nauseating conversation about the past, forgiveness, pain, family, and beneath it all love. Theirs was a love told through hostess cupcakes and gas station pies, through playful banter and silent drives, through desperate deals and proffered souls. It was a love that endured decades of separation, deception, and suffering, that defied the machinations of heaven, hell, and God Himself.

Death knew the brothers would never use that word, of course, might not even think it. They would instead speak in stunted, profanity-laden sentences that would conclude with a commiserating pat on each other’s shoulders or perhaps a brief hug. Then Dean would drink, and Sam would bury himself in one of his books until they both eventually fell, fitfully, to sleep.

Another end to another day for Sam and Dean Winchester. Death found, to his considerable surprise, that he hoped many more would follow.

Without another glance, Death turned and strode through the door, the bell tingling as it swung shut behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, THANK YOU to all of you who have read all the way to the end, and especially to those of you who leave kudos or comments! It means the world that so many people have enjoyed this series.<3


End file.
